The Missing Reporter
by Jenna Cassie Herdz
Summary: Sherlock and John are called in by an up-and-coming reporter, Quennel Yule, to help her find her friend and famous reporter herself, Deirdra Radcliff. But Sherlock will get more than he bargained for when he decides to take the case on.
1. On the Case

**A/N:** welcome to my Sherlock fic! i just watched the first season and i'm in love! i hope i do the series justice and i can't wait for the next season! enjoy!

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><p><em><strong>Chapter <strong>__**1: On the Case**_

"Sherlock?"

Silence followed John's call.

"Sherlock?" he called again from the kitchen. "Your phone is ringing."

"Yes, I can hear it," Sherlock replied, lying on the couch, his hands in a praying position, his eyes closed.

"Can you _answer_ it?" John replied. "I'm a bit busy with lunch."

"I'm a bit busy with _thinking_, John," Sherlock retorted, unmoving. "Why don't _you_ answer it?"

John sighed before calling, "It could be Lestrade with an interesting case."

"It could just as easily be _Mycroft_ with a case for me as well," Sherlock replied. "I would rather ignore it than answer it."

John said nothing as he came back, a plate in his hand full of leftovers from their dinner the night before. He grabbed the phone and tossed it toward Sherlock who caught it in mid-air then sighed as he pressed it to his ear.

"Sherlock Holmes," he answered then fell silent as John sat in the big chair next to the fireplace.

"_I hear you take interesting cases, Mr. Holmes_," a feminine English accent crooned in his ear.

"Cases that _I_ deem interesting," Sherlock retorted then gave a small frown asking, "Who is this?"

"_Someone who needs your help_," she replied. "_I'll pay you handsomely, of course._"

"I don't take a case without knowing the particulars," Sherlock explained, sitting up to lean on his knees, catching John's attention as well.

"_And you'll have them when we meet in thirty minutes at the lovely little café down your block_," she assured him.

"What makes you think I'll meet a nameless woman with a case that may be child's play for me?" he shot back.

"_Because I've piqued your interest, Mr. Holmes_," she answered, and he could hear the smirk in her tone. "_Thirty minutes. I'll be waiting in the back booth._"

The click of the line disconnecting sounding after that and Sherlock lowered the phone to frown at it, looking over the number, but it was blocked.

So, a young woman had a case for him, did she? She had to be young…ish. Possibly between twenty and twenty-five by the tone of her voice and the way she spoke. An _attractive_ woman by the confidence she had in her tone as well…someone who was used to getting people to do or say exactly what she needed them to, a reporter, perhaps? It was the first thing that came to mind by her vague speech.

He looked at his watch foe the time…

Half past three.

"A half hour, she said," he recalled in a murmur, and John frowned at him in wonder as he wiped his hand with a napkin.

"What is it, Sherlock?" he asked, but the other man just stared into space in thought for a moment before standing and heading toward the door.

"Coming, John?" he asked, taking down his coat and scarf to put them on.

"Where?" John asked, setting his now empty plate aside and standing as well as Sherlock adjusted his scarf properly.

"To meet a girl for our next case," Sherlock replied, sauntering out the door, John hurrying after him. "She said to meet in a half an hour, but she is a busy woman."

"Who is she?" John asked as they trotted down the stairs then out the front door of their building to head down the street.

"Haven't the faintest," Sherlock admitted then added, "Well, that is to say I've never _met_ her."

"And she has a case for us?" John asked, walking next to him.

"That's what she said," Sherlock replied, looking around the street. "She said she would be waiting in the back booth of the café at the end of the block." He scoffed, continuing, "An interesting choice in seating. She's obviously cautious and wants to know _everything_ that's going on around her. Oh, yes. I'm _positive_ she's a reporter."

"You barely had a _minute_ with her on the phone and you already know what she does for a living?" John smirked. His colleague's mind never ceased to amaze him.

"Of course, John," Sherlock replied, matter-of-factly. "_And_ I could tell you she's single, no children, and has a short haircut."

"_Now_ you're guessing," John guessed, flatly.

"No woman would go out of her way to sound so sultry on the phone if she was married and/or had children," Sherlock explained. "And I heard the faintest sounds of swishing hair against the phone."

"And I suppose you can tell if she's pretty or not," John retorted.

"Of course she is," Sherlock huffed. "Have you ever seen an _un_attractive reporter?"

John had no answer for that as they reached the door to the café and entered together. It was busy today, and Sherlock instantly went looking for the mystery girl, John right behind him.

"Shouldn't we order something?" he asked. "We can't just loiter around here, I'm sure."

"No need," Sherlock replied as they reached the very last booth in the back corner of the café. "She's ordered something for us."

A young brunette woman sat in the middle of the booth, a coffee in front of her, one to her left and one to her right, a smirk over her lips when she spotted the pair coming toward her. She had short (as predicted) brown hair and piercing amber eyes, and (as predicted) she was very pretty. She wore a red, long-sleeved blouse with a thick white scarf around her neck to fight the cold, a matching red pocket book on a gold chain sitting next to her.

"I knew you couldn't wait," she smirked, gesturing to the coffee on her right. "Black, two sugars. Just how you like it, Mr. Holmes."

"Thank you," Sherlock nodded, pulling off his scarf and sliding into the booth as John frowned in wonder, sitting to the other side of her.

"How did you know that's how he takes his coffee?" he voiced, drawing her attention to him.

"The same way I know that you prefer tea, Dr. Watson," she smiled as she gestured to the cup he sat in front of.

"Don't you listen, John?" Sherlock asked, catching both their attentions, but Sherlock kept his gaze on the mystery woman. "I told you she's a reporter. She probably came 'round the flat and asked Mrs. Hudson about us. You also visited the coroner's office and spoke to the attendant there, Molly Hooper, I'm sure. All part of your researching skills."

"I see you already know a bit about me," she smiled in amusement, lifting her cup to take a drink. "What else have you figured out, Mr. Holmes."

"You went to college," he instantly replied. "Oxford by the way you hold yourself and speak using titles, which also means you had money to go there, and still do by the Couture pocket book sitting next to you. You don't work much with your hands by the regular manicure, which means no hard labor or children, and no wedding ring on your left hand which means you are single. There _may_ be a boyfriend, but with your line of work, as a reporter, I highly doubt it."

"How many years would you say I went to college?" she asked, obviously testing how _much_ he could get from her by one phone call and one _look_ at her.

"Two years," he answered without hesitation.

"My age?"

"Twenty-two."

"Am I left or right handed?"

"Right."

"How do I take my coffee?"

"Two creams, two sugars."

"And my tea?"

"The same."

The brunette smirked, and nodded, "Impressive, as expected, Mr. Holmes."

"Why am I here?" Sherlock asked, his intense gaze never moving from her.

"Ah, yes," she chirped. "Allow me to, at last, properly introduce myself. My name is Quennel Yule. I'm a reporter for the BBC. I've called you here because I need your help in finding a friend of mine who's gone missing a few hours ago."

"Why haven't you called the police?" John instantly asked, drawing her attention to him.

"This is to be handled as quickly and discreetly as possible," Quennel replied.

"Who's been kidnapped?" Sherlock asked, pulling her attention back to him.

"Deirdra Radcliff," Quennel replied.

"She's been kidnapped?" John breathed, causing the other two to look at him, Sherlock staring at him with a frown.

"You know her?" he questioned his friend.

"She's one of the most famous reporters for the BBC," John replied. "Honestly, Sherlock. You need to _watch_ the telly once in a while instead of _shooting_ at it for target practice."

Quennel turned a frown to Sherlock and asked, "You _shoot_ the telly?"

"How do you she's been kidnapped and not simply run off somewhere?" Sherlock asked, ignoring the question.

Quennel glanced around before reaching for her pocket book to open it and pull out a folded piece of paper to slide it toward him, explaining, "This was left in her dressing room. It was just sitting folded in front of the mirror."

Sherlock took the note and opened it to read…

_Deirdra Radcliff will be released __when I receive 50,000 pounds by the end of the week. Leave money near Westminster Bridge at one o'clock Saturday._

After reading it, Sherlock handed it to John to read as Quennel waited in silence and After John examined it, he handed it back to Sherlock.

"A ransom," he voiced.

"Yes," Sherlock hummed, examining the note. "Obviously someone who's never committed a crime before, and doesn't want any blood shed."

"How can you tell _that_?" Quennel couldn't help but ask.

"The wording," Sherlock explained. "No mention of whether or not they'll _kill_ her, only saying she'll be _released_. Had they cared whether or not she lived or died, they would have mentioned her inevitable demise. The hand-writing is shaky, indicating a case of nerves while writing the note and the fact that they've given you a week means they've planned no room for error in seeing that they don't _need_ to kill her. Plenty of time to gather that amount of money. The paper…"

Sherlock turned to hold it up in the light before sitting forward again. He felt at it before bringing a corner to his face and sniffing at it then taking a small lick before continuing from where he trailed off.

"The paper is not of high-grade quality, which means we're looking for someone of little means. The ink is from a ball-point pen…office supplied, possibly. Yes. _Both_ are office supplied."

Quennel turned to John as Sherlock continued examining the note and asked, "Is it _always_ this entertaining to watch him?"

"You have no idea," John smirked as they both looked to him again.

"May I keep this?" he asked, holding the note up and folding it to slip it into his pocket.

"Yes, of course," Quennel replied. "See what else you can deduce from it."

"Can you show me where Miss Radcliff lived?" Sherlock asked, standing and starting to pull on his scarf, John following.

"Of course," Quennel nodded then glanced between them and asked, "Now?"

"Yes, now," Sherlock replied.

"Right," Quennel smiled, awkwardly before sliding out of the booth herself and leading them toward the door. "It's nearer the studio. We'll have to take a cab."

"Very well," Sherlock nodded, following her onto the street, John right behind them. "I have something to ask, before we go any further."

"Oh! Of course!" Quennel chirped, as if recalling something as she reached into her pocket book for a pen and a piece of paper. "How much will you want for your services?"

"No, it's not about that," Sherlock corrected her, making her frown up at him. "We'll discuss that but later. I want to know how _you_ knew I would take this case."

Quennel smiled, confidently as she lowered her bag, letting it hang from the chain around her shoulder.

"I heard you were bored," she smirked. "Bored men need entertaining."

She turned and placed to fingers in her mouth to whistle loudly down the street, and a cab that had been parked a few yards from them slowly drove toward them.

"You have to admit," John smirked to his friend. "She was right."

"Oh, shut up, John," Sherlock muttered, irritably. But he did _silently_ admit she was right.

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><p><strong>AN:** reviews?


	2. Surprise

**A/N:** new chappie! enjoy!

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><p><em><strong>Chapter <strong>__**2: Surprise**_

"We were supposed to carpool today," Quennel explained as they headed up a flight of stairs to Deirdra's flat, rummaging through her pocket book. "I thought she might have forgotten so I went to the studio. That's where I found the note."

"So you haven't been here yet?" John asked as they stopped at the door, Quennel pulling out her keys to open the door as Sherlock stepped next to her.

"You have a key to her apartment?" Sherlock frowned in wonder before looking away and tisking at himself. "Of course you do."

"She was my best friend," she confirmed, finding the key then smirking up at him, saying, "But you already knew that, didn't you?"

"Of course I did," Sherlock smirked. "From the moment you described the case."

Quennel nodded and was about to open the door, but when she bumped the knob with her hand, the door swung open, slightly. The three looked to the door with wide eyes and John instantly pulled Quennel back from the door as Sherlock just as swiftly sauntered into the room.

"Sherlock! Wait!" John called, hurrying in after him and Quennel hurried after _him_. "You don't know if someone's still in there!"

"The kidnapper left ages ago, John," Sherlock replied, pacing around the living room then heading into the kitchen. "They have no reason to stay here."

"You're still reckless," he muttered, heading after him. Quennel rushed past him to observe Sherlock, but he only stood in the middle of the kitchen and glanced around.

"She had time to make breakfast," he noticed. "Dishes and pan in the sink. Scrambled eggs with pepper."

He whirled around and marched past the two with him and headed toward a door across the living room, opening it and stepping in but he stopped dead at the doorway.

"What's wrong?" Quennel frowned as she followed him, John right behind her. She stepped next to him and gasped just as Sherlock stepped into the bedroom, his eyes darting everywhere.

"This is where they struck," he murmured, stepping next to the bed, careful not to step on anything that was on the floor. The room was thrown from an obvious struggle. "They came through the window, there." He pointed to the window across the room then turned to the closet behind him. "They hid in the closet and waiting for her to go about her routine."

He looked inside the closet and examined the suits hanging there, the shoes lined up on the floor.

"She was about to change from her nightwear when the kidnapper jumped out, and…" He whirled toward the bed, theatrically pretending to throw something onto the bed. "…shoved her onto the bed." He examined the sheets of the disheveled bed then resumed, "She struggled, obviously. But it looks like she was shoved and rolled so that her hands could be bound behind her back. This all happened around three or four in the morning. That's how they got her out of here through the front door without anyone really noticing."

"She was supposed to pick me up around half past four," Quennel reported, but he seemed to ignore her as he knelt down and lifting a piece of paper at his feet on the floor. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the ransom note to hold them up in the light and examine them.

"Same paper," he observed, then looked to the nightstand and noticed a ball-point pen on its surface. "So it wasn't nerves that made the script so shaky. It was the adrenaline after committing the act."

"The kidnapper wrote the note here as well?" John frowned in wonder as Sherlock stood, leaving the paper he'd found but tucking the note back into his pocket. "Seems a bit disorganized."

"First crime, remember?" Sherlock reminded him, shoving his hands in his pockets and examining the lush carpet at his feet. "Size…"

He frowned as he trailed off and leaned down at the waist again to examine the floor, making the other two frown in wonder.

"Small size," he finally muttered. "Size seven."

"Deirdra's a size seven," Quennel informed him.

"Yes, there's barefoot impressions _and_ shoe impressions," Sherlock acknowledged. "_Both_ size seven."

"Alright, so the kidnapper had small feet," John shrugged.

"By proportion, the kidnapper would be either a freakishly small man or a _woman_," Sherlock replied, marching past the two and heading toward the front door.

"Is that it?" Quennel asked, following John as they headed toward the door. "You don't have any other questions for me?"

"Not at the moment," Sherlock replied, the three of them heading out the door and Quennel shut it behind them as she hurried down the stairs after the two men. "I'll need your number though to keep in touch."

"Oh, Mr. Holmes, I think you've mistaken me," she replied as they all reached the bottom of the stairs and stood in the sidewalk. Sherlock turned to her with a frown as she stopped in front of him with a smile. "I'm not letting you out of my sight, Sir. I want to find out everything _you_ do about this the _moment_ you do. And I don't want to end up on your suspect list."

"You were never suspected, Miss Yule," Sherlock retorted. "Your eyes are far too honest. Perhaps that's why you haven't been able to get ahead in your business in the entire year that you've been there? Why you've been consulting Miss Radcliff for help on being the best reporter you can be?"

"I think that's enough deduction on _me_, Mr. Holmes," Quennel replied, irritably. "As hard as it may be, keep your focus on finding Deirdra and _not_ on myself."

"Ah, a tribute to your role in the relationship," Sherlock smirked, obviously aging her on and John caught it instantly but remained silent to see how Quennel would handle him. "You'd rather stay _out_ of the spotlight, even when Deirdra gives you a story that she's been working on, isn't that right?"

"I swear, Sherlock Holmes, I'll slap that smug smirk off your face if you don't stop that," Quennel snapped, taking both men aback before she took a deep breath and looked back at Sherlock. "If this is your way of trying to chase me off while you solve this case, it won't work. I owe it to Deirdra to be as close to this case as possible. She would do the same for me."

Sherlock sighed through his nose, looking to John who only shrugged as Quennel stared at him expectantly.

"Fine," Sherlock nodded. "But you'll be expected to keep up."

"Of course, Mr. Holmes," Quennel smirked. "I wouldn't be much of a reporter if I couldn't."

"And stop calling me Mr. Holmes," he demanded. "Sherlock will do just fine."

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><p><em>221B Baker St...<em>

"I'm a little surprised at you, Sherlock," John smirked as he and Sherlock headed up the stairs to their flat.

"Surprised at me, why?" Sherlock frowned in wonder as they entered the room, Sherlock swiftly pulling off his coat and scarf to hang them behind the door.

"That you agreed to that reporter following you throughout this case," John explained, pulling off his jacket as well as Sherlock flopped back onto the couch, staring at the ceiling.

"Yes, well, whether or not she follows me around is not the issue right now," Sherlock sighed, lifting his hands to clasp them together and placed a finger over his lips. "Get my box of Nicotine patches, John."

"A please would be nice," John retorted, heading to the kitchen. "Don't you think she'll be a distraction?" He stepped back into the living room, and toward Sherlock, adding, "She _is_ rather pretty."

"Distraction for _me_ or for _you_, John?" Sherlock smirked, making John frown at him. "I say, old boy, first Sarah, now this girl. Aren't you the playboy."

"Oh, get off," John muttered, tossing the box of patches at Sherlock and making the other man chuckle in amusement as he took one out of the box to slap onto his arm. "I _meant_ a distraction for _you_."

"I don't get distracted by women," Sherlock replied, resuming his earlier position. "I told you…not my area."

"You're both being rather _calm_ about this kidnapping," John noticed, sitting at the desk to open his laptop. "Shouldn't you be trying to solve it quickly?"

"The kidnapper gave us till Saturday, John," Sherlock replied. "It's only Wednesday. Besides they won't hurt her."

"Yes, they don't want to kill her, I recall," John confirmed. "But what if that changes?"

"It won't," Sherlock muttered. "Now stop talking, I'm trying to think."

"Well, she'll be here any minute," John mused, ignoring Sherlock's order. "We should tidy up a bit.

"Yes, you do that," Sherlock replied, not looking at him as he began doing just that.

"Sherlock?" a timid call came from the doorway and he sighed in exasperation. Will he _ever_ get a moment's peace to _think_?

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson?" he replied.

"There's a lovely young lady outside with a suitcase saying she's to be your flatmate for a while," the old woman replied, standing at the door.

"Yes, yes, that's Quennel Yule, let her—"

He cut himself off and instantly sat up to look at the old woman as she frowned in wonder at him, John stopping as well to look at the other man.

"_Flatmate_?" Sherlock snapped and Mrs. Hudson was about to say something but a figure, dragging a medium-sized suitcase with it stopped next to her.

"Yes, flatmate," Quennel nodded with a smile, setting her case next to her then heading into the room. "Is this it? Well, this is nice. Could use some tidying, but what do you expect from blocks?"

Sherlock stared at her as she started lifting things to examine them but put them back exactly where she found them as Mrs. Hudson frowned between John and Sherlock.

"Flatmate?" Sherlock repeated.

"You mean you didn't know?" John frowned at him, shooting his attention to the doctor. "That's what she meant. I thought you would've caught that."

Sherlock looked back at Quennel as she stood at the door to his bedroom.

"_Flatmate_?"

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, I think we'll take it from here," John called, quickly heading toward the confused woman and ushering her back to her flat. "I think these two need a moment."

"Are you sure it's alright?" Mrs. Hudson wondered.

"Oh, it'll be fine, trust me," John replied, but wasn't so sure.

As soon as they were out the door, Sherlock shot to his feet and stared her down as she only smirked up at him, confidently.

"Now look," he began. "I _have_ a flatmate and we don't need anyone else around here mussing things up."

"I thought we'd already _had_ this conversation, _Sherlock_," she replied. "I've been told the way you work. All hours of the day, and still about to run around the way you do without much sleep or food. I want to be here for _all_ of it. As a good reporter I would _have_ to see the whole story to get it right, wouldn't I? And as I said, I owe this much to Deirdra. I am going to stay _here_ until we get Deirdra back safe and sound."

"I did _not_ agree to you _staying_ here," Sherlock recalled.

"_I_ am your employer, for the moment," Quennel shot back. "How I chose to see this case through is _my_ decision, don't you think?"

Sherlock set his jaw but said nothing as he marched back to the couch and grabbed his box of Nicotine patches to slap two more on his arm. One for the case and two for the stress of dealing with Quennel Yule. He flopped back onto the couch, sighing and shutting his eyes as he pulled his hands together in front of him again. Quennel frowned at the scene before stepping toward the couch to lean on the arm at his feet.

"I'll sleep on the sofa, if you'd like," she assured him, nearly in a whisper. "You won't know I'm even here."

"I don't _care_ where you sleep," he muttered. "Now would you _please_ give me some quiet? I need to think."

"Sorry," Quennel whispered before looking over her shoulder and seeing John heading back toward the door.

She shoved off the arm of the sofa and pressed a finger over her lips, making John roll his eyes and Quennel gave a soft giggle as she stepped toward him.

"Take out?" she asked and John nodded, feeling puckish himself.

Sherlock remained in his spot, but he could sense Quennel staring at him for a moment before she finally went to the door to get her suitcase and bring it inside. His temper had never got the best of him like that over such a trivial thing, and as he had slapped on those two patches, he realized that this case, and Quennel Yule, were going to be a handful. He couldn't help but smirk at that. Finally, some decent entertainment.

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><p><strong>AN:** reviews?


	3. Secrets

**A/N:** sorry this took so long! new chappie! enjoy!

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><p><em><strong>Chapter 3: Secrets<strong>_

Sherlock didn't bother looking to the door as Quennel and John returned carrying a plastic bag each. He kept his gaze on the task at hand…rummaging through Quennel's suitcase.

"Sherlock! What do you think you're doing?" John snapped, shutting the door behind him and marching toward him as Quennel only chuckled, heading toward the kitchen with her bag. "Quennel, I'm so sorry."

"Don't apologize for me, John," Sherlock replied, lifting a hairclip from the bag and snapping it before setting it aside to continue searching through the bag.

"He's obviously looking for something, John," Quennel smiled, clearing spot as much as she could on the table to set the bag down.

"Oh, I _found_ it, Miss Yule," Sherlock retorted, shifting slightly to his right and lifting something from the couch as John quickly tried to gather Quennel's things to close her case, but froze when Sherlock lifted something in his hand. Quennel stepped into the threshold of the kitchen and leaned on the frame, calmly as Sherlock held a small caliber revolver, pointing the barrel at the ceiling. "I believe this is _your_ pistol. 22 caliber. Unused. Newly bought. Not very well concealed, I might add."

"You shouldn't have been going through her things, Sherlock," John scolded.

"No, probably not," Sherlock agreed. "But you're not the _least_ bit curious as to _why_ she bought a gun after meeting with us?"

His gaze turned to Quennel as she smirked at him, crossing her arms as John turned to her as well.

"That's where you went, isn't it?" Sherlock urged, smirking back at her as he twirled the gun on his finger, having left the safety on when he found it. "You went to purchase this revolver after you left your friend's apartment and _we_ came here."

"I told you I had business to attend to," Quennel nodded. "But you already knew _what_ I was going to do, didn't you?"

"I noticed the document in your pocketbook when you pulled out the ransom note, date stamped today," Sherlock explained. "A permit to carry a weapon."

"You've already shown off to me, Mr. Holmes," Quennel retorted. "I don't need any more convincing of your talents."

"That's not what I'm getting at," Sherlock replied, standing and still holding the gun as he stepped toward her, John following him.

"Just what _are_ you getting at, Sherlock?" he questioned, but he was seemingly ignored as the taller man stopped in front of Quennel.

"My question for you is _why_?" Sherlock replied. "Why would you purchase a gun and have a permit to carry it the day your friend has been kidnapped?"

Quennel's smirk fell and she shifted on her feet, lowering her arms to her sides as well as Sherlock only kept his intense gaze on her.

"I thought I wasn't a suspect, Mr. Holmes," she recalled, rather timidly.

"You're not," he confirmed. "But you're keeping something from me and in order to rescue your friend I have to know what it is."

Quennel swallowed as John remained silent, watching the two carefully. She set her jaw, looking away for a moment in thought before looking back at him and straightening.

"The permit was in the works," she finally explained. "Deirdra had advised that I should have a gun, in case I got into a sticky situation."

"A particular situation, I'm sure," Sherlock chimed in. "Such as a kidnapping."

"Did Deirdra have a pistol?" John wondered.

"No," Quennel replied, looking to him before looking back at Sherlock. "But she was planning to get one. She wanted to make sure _I_ was protected first, since I was the new recruit."

"Why would she advise you to do that and then suddenly do it herself?" Sherlock inquired.

She opened her mouth to speak but quickly shut it, looking away again.

"Quennel, he needs to know," John urged, gently. "Your friend's life is at stake."

"Well, not really her life, but her safety certainly is compromised," Sherlock corrected and Quennel frowned at him before sighing in defeat.

"She had a big story she was working on in Iraq," she replied. "She was in the final workings of it, but it was a field trip story. We would have had to _go_ to the war zone. She was going to take me along. You hear about reporters being kidnapped all the time over there. She was doing a biography piece on one of the soldiers there. An interview confronting him about the double life he was leading back at home."

"_One_ man?" Sherlock frowned. "What was so special about him?"

"She wouldn't tell me," Quennel shrugged, shaking her head. "All I know is she was thrilled about it. She had researched him and came up with all this scandal on him. Two families in two different countries and thousands of euros saved in a bank account in Zurich."

"How did he get all that money?" John wondered as Sherlock looked into space, thinking.

"According to Dee's findings, he had his fingers in _many_ pies over the years," she replied. "KGB, CIA, Beijing…you name it, he was in it. He was having a run with MI6 when he dropped all of it and decided to become a Marine only a year after joining the agency."

"So he was a double agent," John guessed.

"More like a lost man trying to find his calling," Sherlock corrected, turning and slowly stepping back toward the couch.

"Well it must be _him_ then," John theorized as Sherlock plopped himself on the couch. "He found out and hired someone to silence her."

"No, this wasn't a hired hand," Sherlock replied. "They wouldn't have left a note, and they wouldn't have _kidnapped_ her. They would have _silenced_ her from letting the story get out. This man wouldn't have thought twice on ordering a hit if it _were_ him."

John slumped a bit before sighing and turning to Quennel who gave a small nod of agreement.

"However…"

They looked to Sherlock expectantly. He didn't move for a moment, still in deep thought as he held the gun in the both hands, tapping it between his fingers as he held his hands up near his face. He suddenly shot to his feet, marching toward the front door and tossing Quennel's pistol to her, which she caught with both hands.

"This man might be worth questioning," Sherlock finally finished off his thought, taking his jacket and scarf from the hook on the door and pulling them on. "Coming along, you two?"

"Where're we headed?" Quennel wondered, hurrying toward her case to pull out a jacket.

"A man I know with a webcam," Sherlock replied. "We're going to talk to this soldier. What's his name?"

"Lieutenant Brent Stone," Quennel informed him, following him just as he sauntered out the door, John following them. "But he's in Iraq. Even _we_ couldn't get a sit down with him over webcam."

"You're not _me_, Miss Yule," Sherlock retorted, marching down the stairs and toward the front door.

"Obviously," Quennel smiled, shoving her pistol into her pocketbook before they stepped into the street then stopped with John to recall, "Our food's going cold."

"That's what a microwave's for," Sherlock chimed in and John gestured to him with a nod of exasperated agreement.

"Oh, just like home," Quennel chirped as a cab pulled up for them.

* * *

><p><em>Later...<em>

"This is a dark basement," Quennel muttered, crossing her arms as Sherlock and John stood on either side of her, all three standing behind a young man as he typed wildly at a computer. "Your hacker is in a dark basement."

"You know too many delinquents," John muttered at Sherlock, recalling his graffiti "source" that left him with a bag of spray paint and a court case on his record.

"Hacker is such a _harsh_ term," the young man piped up in a Northern accent, not looking away from the screen with his dark blue eyes through black, thick-framed glasses. "I prefer to think of myself as getting into places that others wouldn't bother."

"Hacker," Quennel whispered loudly, but Sherlock ignored her as he leaned over the young man's shoulder to look at the screen as well.

"Can you do it, Jared?" he asked and the younger man scoffed.

"Three parts of the way there, mate," Jared smirked. "After you kept me from jail last month, my fingers have never flown faster."

"So you were caught, then?" John guessed.

"More like _framed_," Jared scoffed again. "I never would've done such a sloppy job getting in and out of that system."

"What'd they hack?" Quennel couldn't help but ask as Jared never once looked from the screen.

"MI6," he replied deftly, sending Quennel's and John's eyes wide at the back of his head before looking at each other in just as much disbelief. "Got it!"

The two looked to the screen as Jared stood to let Sherlock sit as the picture went to static for a moment before it started coming into focus.

"_Hello?_" a man on the screen called in a Kiwi, his green-hazel eyes looking over the screen on his end through strands of mussed brown hair. "_Jared?__You__there?_"

"Here, Brent," Jared called, leaning over in front of Sherlock to wave at him before the detective shoved the boy out of his view.

"Hello, Lieutenant," Sherlock nodded.

"_Who__are__you?_" Brent questioned.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes," he replied. "And _I__'__ll_ be asking the rest of the questions from here on. First of all, you should know that _I_ know about your double life, _and_ the bank account in Zurich."

"Sherlock—!" Quennel hissed behind him but he ignored her as Brent's eyes widened in disbelief.

"_How__did__you__find__out?_" he snapped.

"I told you, Lieutenant Stone, _I__'__ll_ be asking the questions, here," Sherlock repeated. "My first question is, were you at any time aware that you were being investigated?"

"_Never,_" Brent replied. "_Why__… __Never__mind_."

"Does the name Deirdra Radcliff mean anything to you?" Sherlock continued questioning, watching Brent intently.

The other man looked away in thought for a moment before shrugging and looking back to the screen, shaking his head. "_Nothing__at__all_."

"You're a _liar_, Stone!" Quennel suddenly snapped, leaning in front of Sherlock on one hand and making the three men in the room and the one on the screen turn wide eyes to her in shock. "She told me all about your relationship in college. She said you had dumped her for another girl that she later found out you were _cheating_ on her with! She was going to _expose_ you for the _rat_ you were!"

"John, get her out of my way, won't you?" Sherlock requested, nearly swatting Quennel away.

"You were going to _get_ what was coming to you, Stone!" Quennel snarled. "You sneaky _bastard_—!"

She was cut off when John yanked her away from the screen and up the stairs behind them. She struggled as Sherlock only looked back at a disbelieving Brent Stone.

"_Mr.__Holmes,__I__have__no__idea__what__she__'__s__taking__about_," he quickly countered to Quennel's attack.

"Of course you're lying, Lieutenant Stone," Sherlock retorted, sending Brent's eyes even wider. "I can tell by the way your eyes are shifting. It would be in your best interest to tell me the _truth_. We're not looking into _your_ misdeeds, but since Miss Radcliff _was_, I decided to question you and find out if she had any motive to do this. Since Miss Yule there has just enlightened me on that, I'll ask you a series of _different_ questions. Did she take the break up poorly?"

Brent stared through the screen for a moment before sighing and lowering his face into his hands to rub it then replied, "_Yeah,__she__wasn__'__t__too__happy__about__it_."

"She was furious, I'm sure, finding out your true nature," Sherlock agreed. "Did she make any threats against you?"

"_Well,__hell__hath__no__fury,__and__all__that_," Brent sighed. "_Of__course__she__did,__but__I__didn__'__t__think__she__'__d__actually__go__through__with__it.__Thought__it__was__just__a__bluff,__you__know?_"

"So you had no idea she was investigating your history?" Sherlock guessed. "Which means you would have no motive to kidnap her."

"_None__at__all_," Brent admitted. "_I__'__d__seen__her__on__TV,__heard__she__made__it__big__and__I__was__happy__for__her__ – __Wait,__did__you__just__say__kidnap__?_"

"That'll be all, Lieutenant," Sherlock only replied, starting to get up from the chair as Jared swooped in and tapped a button that made the screen dark. "Thank you again, Jared."

"No problem, Sherlock," Jared grinned as Sherlock stood next to the chair and looked to the stairs before turning to them.

"Say hello to your sister for me," he called as he headed up the stairs.

"Will do," Jared called back, sitting at his computer. "But you _could_ text her."

"No…I couldn't," Sherlock replied, reaching the top of the stairs and opening the door to reveal the kitchen of the small flat. Quennel sat at the table, her arms and legs crossed as she gritted her teeth, John standing next to her before turning to Sherlock as he approached Quennel. "Well, I knew you were hiding more from me."

"Of _course_ you did," Quennel scoffed.

"Why are _you_ so angry when it's _Deirdra__'__s_ obvious vendetta against him?" John wondered.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "Why indeed?" Quennel kept her gaze away from them as Sherlock watched her intently and guessed, "Because it's not just _her_ vendetta, is it?" Quennel finally looked up at him as he said, "It's _yours_ as well."

"What did he ever do to _you_?" John wondered.

Quennel looked to him to reply, "He used me, that's all you need to know."

"_You_ were the other woman," Sherlock chimed in, making Quennel shoot a wide-eyed gaze at him. "Why _else_ would two women go after the same man? It also explains the overly-emotional and irrational outburst down there."

"He didn't even _recognize_ me, the bastard," Quennel ground out. "When I saw Deirdra my first day at BBC, I went up to apologize. She was very understanding and…forgiving."

Her shoulders shuddered slightly as she turned to lean her elbows on the table, her face in her hands.

"I miss her," she shuddered. "I just want her back."

"We'll find her, Quennel," John murmured, stepping next to her and placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

"I know," Quennel sniffled, pulling herself together and turning in the chair again to look to Sherlock who had remained silent, even as she stood and headed toward the door leading outside. "That's why I _hired_ you."

"Anything _else_ you'd like to share before we continue?" Sherlock called, following her as John headed after them as well. "I wouldn't want to be caught off guard and kidnapped myself."

"I doubt _you_ could be caught off guard, Mr. Holmes," Quennel chuckled as they headed down the alleyway the kitchen door had led to.

Sherlock quickened a few paces up to her and gripped her arm to stop her. She turned to him with a wide-eyed frown as he stopped, his hand on her wrist and John nearly slammed into his friend's back but managed to side-step and stop next to him.

"I'm serious, Miss Yule," he said, staring her down, calmly. "I need every little thing you know to determine if it's relevant or not. What other dynamics of the story she was working on have you kept from me?"

"Nothing," Quennel quickly replied. "There's nothing else. Can we concentrate on getting Deirdra _back_ now instead of what she was working on?"

John glanced between the two as they only stared each other down for another moment before Sherlock let go of her wrist and she pulled it away swiftly.

"There's one more question I need answered," Sherlock replied, stepping around Quennel to head down the alley, she and John frowning after him before hurrying to catch up when he reached the street.

"What question is that, Sherlock?" John asked for the both of them as the detective called for a cab.

"What was a reporter, earning thousands of pounds a month, using such cheap paper and pens?"


	4. Call From a Kidnapper

**A/N:** new chappie! enjoy!

* * *

><p><em><strong>Chapter 4: Call from a Kidnapper<strong>_

"Quennel!"

She, Sherlock and John turned to be approached by a man with a headset on his head, a smile on his face.

"Hello Adam," Quennel smiled when he stopped.

"Who are your friends here?" he smiled.

"Oh, they're…my cousins," Quennel lied, hesitantly as Sherlock and John remained silent. "Sherlock, John, this is one of our producers, Adam Connolly."

"Pleasure," Adam smiled again, shaking a hand on each man. "Was that why you called in, Quennel?"

She nodded, then said, "I was just showing them where I work then we're heading out to grab a bite for dinner."

"Sounds smashing," Adam smiled then quickly added, "Have you seen Deirdra? I've been trying to get a hold of her all day, but she's not answering her mobile."

"Oh…she said she wasn't feeling all that well today," Quennel lied once more. "Something about food poisoning I think. I took some groceries to her a little earlier and she said she hadn't left the toilet all day."

Adam shuddered and glanced away in thought as Quennel gave a silent sigh of relief that he had believed her.

"Well, tell her I hope she feels better," he nodded back at her then waved as he turned to leave, "Nice to meet you two!"

John gave a courteous wave before Adam turned away completely and Quennel gave another sigh before waving them on to follow her.

"For not being a very good liar, you sure fooled _him_ pretty easily," John noticed, he and Sherlock following her through the studio.

"That's because he's as gullible as a new born pup," she muttered, turning into a corridor and stopping at one of the doors. "This is Deirdra's dressing room."

She pushed the door open only to find something blocking it from opening all the way. She frowned at the door and Sherlock gently moved her away to shove his head through the door and look around the room. It was completely thrown, like Deirdra's bedroom in her flat. He looked to the base of the door to find her chair blocking it from completely opening and leaned down to move it out of the way so that he could open the door enough to slip himself into the room.

"What's blocking it?" Quennel frowned, watching him struggle but he managed to move the chair and get in.

"The chair," he grumbled from inside, looking around at the mess and Quennel peeked inside but didn't attempt to enter. She gave a gasp and her hands flew to her mouth in shock as her eyes darted around the room. John peeked in as well and frowned in wonder.

"Just like the flat," John recalled as Quennel turned away and Sherlock began rummaging through the papers. "Someone was obviously looking for something."

"Either that or they wanted us to _think_ they were looking for something," Sherlock theorized, picking up a piece of paper and frowning at it as he read it. "What was that man's name?"

"What man?" John frowned.

"That producer we just met," Sherlock replied.

"Adam," Quennel replied, sniffling and hugging herself, catching John's attention and he reached out to set a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Adam Connolly. What's he got to do with this?"

"There's a piece of paper on the floor with his name on it," Sherlock replied. "It's torn in half, rather viciously."

"We _all_ have papers with his name on it," Quennel replied. "There're probably tons of papers with his name on it in _my_ dressing room. It's of little consequence."

"This one's hand written," Sherlock replied. "And it says _love_, Adam."

"What?" Quennel breathed and leaned over to thrust her hand through the gap. "Let me see it!"

When she felt the paper in her hand she yanked it back and her eyes darted across the torn page. She frowned in utter confusion then poked her head as Sherlock continued searching the room.

"Where's the other half?" she asked and Sherlock looked around at the papers all around him.

Recalling the handwriting from the piece Quennel had, he scanned over the papers and finally leaned down to pick up another piece and handed it to her. Quennel placed the top half over the bottom, reading the entire letter, John looking over her shoulder.

"A love letter," John realized as Quennel shook her head in disbelief but said nothing.

"From Adam to Deirdra," Sherlock called, hearing his friend as he looked through the drawers of the vanity against the wall.

"They _couldn't_ have been dating!" Quennel breathed in disbelief. "Deirdra would've…told me."

"Well, apparently she didn't," Sherlock replied from inside the room, leaning down and picking up a book bag to gather the papers into it.

"Sherlock?" John called, watching him with a frown through the gap.

"I'll need to examine all of these papers when we get back to the flat," he explained. "I'll need your help as well, Miss Yule."

"For what?" Quennel wondered, still looking at the letter.

"I'll need you to help organize these papers for me."

* * *

><p><em>221B Baker...<em>

"They're all notes on the story," Quennel noticed, going through the papers Sherlock had sprawled out over his desk. "There's nothing else."

"Other than this love letter," Sherlock corrected, holding the torn pieces up side by side. "The only thing that's been torn, I might add."

"You think the kidnapper might have found what he was looking for?" John asked, heading toward them with two plates of take away in his hands.

"I think _she_ might have," Sherlock mused as Quennel still went through the papers, not looking to John when he placed a plate next to her but she thanked him.

"Still convinced this was done by a woman?" John guessed, taking a seat with his plate and leaning over to look at the papers as well.

"Still," Sherlock replied, vaguely as he lowered the papers in his hands. "Did Adam have any other women in his life before Deirdra?"

"He's too much of a gentleman to kiss and tell," Quennel replied, not looking at him. "That was half the reason I never knew about he and Deirdra."

"And the other half?" Sherlock asked, starting to look through the papers as well.

"_Deirdra_ didn't tell me," she muttered, then frowned as she lifted another paper. "Sherlock, look at this."

He looked to her just as she handed him a paper, catching John's attention as well. Sherlock took the paper to examine it as Quennel stepped next to him to read over his shoulder, John doing the same as he set his food aside.

"It looks like a list," John noticed.

"That it does," Sherlock agreed, frowning in thought as he tried to read it. "A coded list."

"It's no code," Quennel corrected, causing both men to look at her as she took the paper to look at it a little closer. "It's Dee's style of short hand. She uses symbols instead of words."

"Can you read it?" Sherlock wondered and Quennel nodded.

"This first one says she needs to book our flight to Iraq," she began, leaning next to Sherlock and setting the paper on the desk for all of them to see as she slid a finger down the list. "The next one says she needs to get her gun permit. The third says she needs to get her gun. The fourth one says…" She frowned in wonder and the men looked from the paper to frown at her as well before she continued, "…mess."

"What does that mean?" John wondered.

"I don't know," Quennel admitted, still looking at the page as Sherlock looked back to it as well. "But the next one says note…I don't get this. It doesn't make any sense."

"Well, there's only one thing left to do," Sherlock sighed, standing to head toward the kitchen as Quennel and John frowned at him.

"And…what's _that_, Mr. Holmes?" Quennel wondered, standing and turning to face him, crossing her arms as she leaned back on the desk.

"Wait for Saturday," he replied, looking through his cupboards then looking around on the table.

Quennel and John frowned at each other before they both headed toward him to stand in the threshold of the kitchen and watch him.

"Wait?" Quennel echoed with a frown as he still bustled about the kitchen. "Aren't we supposed to go find her?"

"She's in no danger," Sherlock replied. "The kidnapper won't hurt her. Besides, you need to gather that money for her ransom."

"We're complying with the kidnapper?" John inquired. "I'm sure it gets Miss Radcliff back safely, but is that the smartest move, Sherlock?"

"We'll find out, won't we, John?" Sherlock replied, not looking up from what he'd found on the table and examining it.

"There's just one problem with your brilliantly _reckless_ plan, Mr. Holmes," Quennel shot back, making the man shoot his eyes to her. "I don't _have_ 50,000 pounds on hand at the moment."

"Ah," Sherlock smiled, confidently for the first time since they'd met. "Lucky for us, _I_ know a man with 50,000 to spare."

Quennel stared at him as he lifted a hand toward them, turning back to what he was examining on the table.

"One of you, let me use your mobile," he ordered, beckoning with a flick of his fingers that they obey him.

"You could say _please_, Sherlock," John shot back, digging into his pocket for his phone, but Quennel lifted a hand to stop him, reaching for her own phone and stepping toward Sherlock.

She lifted the phone and placed it in his hand, but when he pulled it toward him, she stepped closer, not letting the phone go either. Noticing the slight resistance he looked up with a frown, both of them still holding the phone as Quennel stood right next to him with a small smirk.

"I didn't think you had it in you, Sherlock," she murmured, making his frown deepen in question. "That was the first time you've smiled since we met."

"Yes," he replied, glancing at his work on the table but turning a frown back to her when she still didn't release her phone. "Was there something else utterly obvious that you wanted to point out?"

"I'm just surprised, that's all," she shrugged, finally letting go of her phone and watching him stand tall to text someone. "The Great Sherlock Holmes can smile."

"Yes, I've been known to do it on occasion," Sherlock retorted, not looking away from the phone for another moment before handing it back to her and she took it as he leaned over the table again. "Money problem solved. You can go about your business now."

"Not quite," Quennel corrected, looking at her phone. "Who did you text?"

"No one," Sherlock blurted.

"His brother," John guessed, making Sherlock roll his eyes and head dramatically before looking to John irritably.

"Must you give away _everything_?" he questioned, making John smirk as Quennel frowned at Sherlock.

"You have a brother?" she asked. "Why didn't I find it in my research?"

"Because he works for the government," John replied again, making Sherlock slam his hand onto the table and stand tall.

"Blast it all, John! What did I _just say_?" he snapped then sighed, "Does no one _listen_ to me?"

Quennel's phone suddenly buzzed and she looked at it, frowning at the ID before opening the message and reading aloud, "It's done."

"There," Sherlock nodded, stepping around her to head into the living room again. "All fixed."

"But…how—?"

"I assured him that he'd get his money back in full," he called, rummaging through the sofa cushions as Quennel and John watched him.

"And exactly how are you going to do _that_, Sherlock?" John asked, skeptically.

"Well the kidnapper won't _keep_ it," Sherlock replied, vaguely, still rummaging through the sofa and making his companions frown in utter confusion.

"Alright, I can't take it anymore," Quennel stated, putting her phone away. "What in the bloody hell are you looking for?"

"A pen," Sherlock replied, deftly as he still searched. "Ah! Here it is!"

He held up said pen then turned to the two and marched back into the kitchen, making the two frown again and head after him.

"You'll want to keep your phone out, Quennel," he advised as she stepped next to him and he started writing on the piece of paper he'd pulled from the pile on the table.

"Why—?"

She jumped when the thing buzzed in her hand with a restricted number on the ID and John hurried to the other side of her.

"That'll be the kidnapper," Sherlock explained making the two look up at him with wide eyes as he still wrote. Noticing they were staring at him he looked up and snapped, "Well don't just sit there! Answer it!"

Quennel shook her shock away and looked to the phone, quickly answering it and putting it up to her ear.

"Hello?"

"_Is this Quennel Yule?_" an obviously digitally altered voice replied, making Quennel swallow and look to Sherlock.

"Speaker," he mouthed, waving toward her and she put the phone on the speaker setting before answering.

"Yes, this is Miss Yule," she replied, shakily. "Who is this?"

Sherlock nodded in approval as he still wrote.

"_I'm the one who has your friend_," the voice replied and Quennel felt her heart nearly stop as Sherlock held up a piece of paper for her to read.

She frowned at it before reading, "Is…she alright?"

"_Of course she is_," the kidnapper replied and Sherlock pulled the paper back to write more. "_I told you I wouldn't harm her. I only want my money_."

"I'll get your money," Quennel assured, stalling a bit for Sherlock before he held the paper up again and she read, "But…I need to know that Deirdra's alright first. Let me talk to her, please?"

There was a long pause and Quennel thought that perhaps the kidnapper wouldn't allow it, but what she heard next made her heart jump.

"_Quennel?_" Deirdra called in a shaky voice and Quennel sighed in relief as Sherlock went back to writing.

"Dee! It's me! I'm here! I'm working for you, deary!" She was on the verge of tears of joy, knowing her friend was unharmed.

"_Just give them what they want, Quennel! Don't do anything stupid—!_"

"Deirdra?" Quennel called, hearing her friend disappear.

"_You have until Saturday_," the kidnapper came on again as Sherlock started writing again and held up the paper for Quennel to read.

"Wait!" she called, catching what was on the paper. "W-Why are you doing this? Is it…because of Deirdra's affair with Adam?"

There was a long pause, and Quennel thought he'd hung up, but sighed inwardly when the kidnapper replied, "_How do you know about that?_"

"I found a love letter left in her dressing room," Quennel replied as Sherlock quickly wrote something else then held it up. "It was torn in half."

"_My reasons are none of your concern_," the kidnapper snapped, making Sherlock give a smirk before turning back to the paper to write more. "_All you need do is bring the money to Westminster Bridge at the designated time_."

"But I have to know _why_ you're doing this!" Quennel cried into the phone, her emotions starting to get the better of her. Sherlock looked up at her as John shook his head at him, signaling she was losing it. "What do you _want_ with her? What did she ever do to you?"

"_Why don't you ask your beloved Sherlock Holmes about it?_" the voice retorted, causing all eyes to shoot to Sherlock who looked to the phone. "_I know you've acquired his services to find me. You would go to such great lengths to help Miss Radcliff. She assured it_."

"If you know, then why not turn yourself in," Sherlock suddenly piped up, Quennel too shocked to speak as he stepped next to her to speak clearer into the phone. "You know I'll succeed."

"_We'll see, Mr. Holmes_," the kidnapper replied. "_We shall certainly see if your genius is what they say it is_."

A click on the line signaled the kidnapper had hung up and Quennel was brought back by the soft sound. She looked to the phone then back at Sherlock, tears coming to her eyes as he looked back at her, expressionless.

"Sherlock," she breathed. "What now?"

"There's nothing to do but wait," he replied, stepping around her to stand with John. "Let me see your phone."

John said nothing as he pulled his phone from his pocket and handed it over. Sherlock tapped something into it before handing it back, Quennel ignoring them to sit at the cluttered table.

"Go to this address," Sherlock ordered John, handing his phone back. "Mycroft will have a man waiting for you with a silver briefcase. You're going to trade something for it."

"Trade?" John frowned in wonder, looking at his phone as Sherlock went back to the table and plucked a flash drive from the mess, stepping back to John and handing it to him. "What's this?"

"Information he'd wanted me to look up for him," Sherlock replied. "He won't wait long, you'd better go."

John nodded and stepped around Sherlock to stand next to Quennel, setting a hand on her shoulder as she looked up at him.

"Are you alright?" he murmured and she nodded slightly before looking back at her lap as she had been before.

"John, there's no time to lose," Sherlock called from where he was standing.

John gave Quennel's shoulder a reassuring squeeze before turning to head toward the door, calling out that he'd be back soon. When the door shut, Sherlock turned to the living room with a tired sigh and flopped back onto the couch. Quennel stared at her phone for a moment before she stood and strolled into the threshold of the kitchen, staring at Sherlock as he kept his hands folded over his stomach, his eyes closed.

Quennel glanced around and noticed her plate of food John had left for her earlier, suddenly feeling hungry. She stepped toward the desk to pick up the plate and start eating as she sat in John's usual chair. Sherlock heard her shuffling and opened one eye to look at her before closing his eyes again and shifting to be more comfortable on the couch.

Catching the action, Quennel glancing up at him and asked, "Did you want some of the take-away John and I bought earlier?"

"No," he blurted. "Eating slows me down."

"Well, you're not going anywhere for a few days," she replied. "You should eat."

Sherlock peeked at her again and stared at her for a moment before lifting a hand and waving it off, saying, "Fine. You can heat something up for me."

Quennel couldn't help but scoff before lifting the plate John had left and stepping toward him to hand it to him. He remained still for a moment before Quennel cleared her throat and he frowned before opening his eyes and sitting up to take the plate.

"That was quick," he noticed as she sat next to him. "John won't be very happy."

"Well, it's either _you_ eat it or it goes cold again," she retorted, shifting to sit comfortably next to him. "Then we'd have to throw it away and it would be a waste."

Sherlock said nothing as he began eating and Quennel only smirked at him before starting at her own food. They were silent for a moment before she glanced at him and couldn't contain herself any longer.

"You're a handsome man, Sherlock Holmes," she began, breaking the silence and making Sherlock look to her. He could hear it in her tone that there was more to that comment and waited. "So it's curious that you wouldn't have a crowd of women trailing after you."

"Women aren't really my area," Sherlock replied, simply as he turned back to his food.

"Oh, so…John's your domestic partner, then?" she guessed hesitantly, taking a bite or her food.

"No," he answered, not looking at her and she gave a nod with a slight smirk as she looked to her food. "He's a friend. His room is upstairs."

"Alright, I believe you," she smirked. "No need to try so hard to sell it, Sherlock. Married to your work, then?"

"Exactly," he nodded.

"Pity," she muttered, drawing his attention to her but she ignored him. "Handsome man like you would produce handsome little Sherlocks."

He stared at her for a moment longer before turning back to his food and finished it off before setting it on the desk and standing to head toward one of the chairs in front of the fireplace where a violin sat. He lifted it and in one, fluid motion, brought it up to tuck it under his chin, lifting the bow in his other hand to the strings. The melody of Fur Elise suddenly broke the silence, and Quennel couldn't help but stare at Sherlock as he played. He was so focused and uninhibited that she was entranced by it.

Sherlock held the last note as long as the bow would allow him before lifting it from the strings as he looked back at her, their gazes meeting before noticing, "You have a question for me?"

Quennel frowned at him in wonder before silently supposing she did and smiled at his always keen senses.

"More of a request," she realized as he set his violin on one of the armchairs and strolled toward the kitchen. She only watched him as she called, "Tell me."

"What do you mean?" he replied, searching the cluttered table for something.

"Sherlock," she called, standing and heading toward the kitchen as well to lean on the doorway frame, crossing her arms. "You've obviously figured it out already. Tell me what you know."

He stopped and looked at her, examining her. Most people would've fidgeted nervously under his scrutinizing gaze, but she _knew _she was being examined, yet she stood silently, expectantly, waiting for his answer.

"You're not ready for my conclusion yet," he replied, turning to the fridge to open it and look inside, Quennel remaining in her spot.

"What the bloody hell does _that_ mean?" she retorted, unmoving.

"You're too devoted," he answered without hesitation, sailing from the fridge and back to the table with a jar. "Too loyal. You'd never believe it. You'll have to see it with your own eyes." He opened the jar effortlessly. "So, we'll wait until Saturday to prove my conclusion right."

"Wait?"

"Wait."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

"What if something goes wrong?"

"It won't."

"How do you _know_?"

Sherlock sighed and turned to her with a bored stare and she shot back with a look as well, arching a brow at him, expectantly.

"Nothing will go wrong," he insisted, turning back to whatever he was doing, his back to her.

"I hope so, Mr. Holmes," she retorted, shoving off the doorway to turn and stroll back to the living room. "I _really_ hope so."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **reviews?


	5. Too Domestic

**A/N:** new chappie! enjoy!

* * *

><p><em><strong>Chapter 5: Too Domestic<strong>_

"Goodnight, Quennel," John called, heading toward his room, Quennel leaning over her suitcase to unpack a few things. She looked p at him with a smile.

"Good night, John," she called back before looking to her bag again.

He looked to the sofa where Sherlock lay on his back, staring at the ceiling in one of his contemplative bouts.

"You could use my room instead of the sofa, if ya like," John offered. "I don't mind the sofa myself."

"Neither do I," she smiled back at him, standing with a pair of folded pajamas and a bag of toiletries as she turned to him. "Thanks for the offer, but I have a feeling I need to stay as close to Sherlock as possible, in case he tries to go meet the kidnapper without me. I've heard he likes going rogue once in a while."

"_Once _in a while?" John scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. "Try _all _the time."

"You _are _aware that I can hear you, yes?" Sherlock suddenly piped up. "I'm sitting _right here_."

"You know I'm right, so what does it matter?" John retorted.

"It doesn't matter if you're right or wrong, you're being rude," Sherlock shot back, making John frown at him in wonder as Quennel headed toward the toilet.

"Since when did _you_ care about manners?" John scoffed just as the door to the restroom shut and Sherlock rolled onto his side, his back facing the room.

"Never mind, John," he muttered. "Go to bed. Miss Yule is fine where she is."

"Sherlock, what's the matter with you?" John asked, bluntly, lowering his arms to his sides as he stepped toward his friend who didn't move. "Do you need more Nicotine patches?"

"I'm fine, John," Sherlock replied. "Thank you. Go to bed."

John made a move to say something else, but decided against it and headed toward his room. When Sherlock heard his footsteps leave the room he flipped himself onto his back again, his hands on his stomach as he stared at the ceiling. He squinted at it for half a second in thought before glancing in the direction of the bathroom. He caught the sound of a sneeze and gave a frown. It was a squeak of a sneeze. The kind some men might find adorable, but he found himself wondering if something was wrong with her nasal passages to make her sneeze like that.

He shot his gaze back to the ceiling when the door opened and she came shuffling out in a pair of long, pale blue pajamas. He shut his eyes when he heard her bare footsteps coming toward him and remained perfectly still when he heard them step next to him. She was standing right beside him on his right, he could hear her light breathing and the creak of the floor beneath her feet as she fidgeted.

_Good_, he thought with an inward smile that didn't form on his lips. _She doesn't know what to do now. Just keep still and don't answer anything she says._

"If you're trying to suggest that I sleep in John's room, I'll tell you the same thing I told him, I don't mind the sofa," she insisted, and he heard the irritation in her tone, the shift of her pajamas as she lifted her hands to place them on her hips.

_Wrong_, he thought. _Try again, Miss Yule._

He caught the sound of shifting cloth again and felt her nearness when she leaned over him, her breath fanning his face and he caught the scent of spearmint from when she'd brushed her teeth just a moment ago.

"Are you asleep?" she whispered when he still didn't move or open his eyes. She stood tall again and he heard the creak of the floor again when she shifted nervously on her feet. "I'll just…sleep in the bed then, shall I?"

She waited for a response but he only remained still, as if asleep, she gave a small sigh and he heard her pad toward his bedroom. When he was sure she was out of sight, he opened his eyes but stared at the ceiling for a moment, concentrating on the sounds from his room. He heard the creak of the springs when she climbed in, the shuffle of fabric when she slid under the covers, and the tired sigh that escaped her when she laid back to rest her head on the pillow.

He shifted only slightly, itching to do what he'd planned but knowing he couldn't do it too soon or the game would be ruined. Then again, if he waited too long, he wouldn't get the reaction he wanted either. He counted to ten, slowly before he couldn't wait any longer and shot to his feet in one swift motion and padded on bare feet toward his bedroom. He wasn't surprised when Quennel didn't hear him step next to the left of the bed as she laid on the right.

Sherlock sat on the empty side of the bed and flung himself back to lay the way he had been on the couch, closing his eyes, but he felt the bed shift then jostle and he realized she'd seen him.

"What are you doing?" she squeaked, and he tried very hard to hold back a smirk of amusement at the sound of her tone.

"Sleeping," he replied, unmoving. "That's what _ordinary _people do at night, isn't it?"

"Well…yes, but…" she trailed off for a moment as she sat with an arm propping her up and she stared at him. "I thought you were going to sleep on the sofa."

"Why would I sleep on the sofa when I have a bed?"

"Because you _were _sleeping on the sofa not half a minute ago."

"Don't be ridiculous. I wasn't _sleeping_. I was thinking. I never sleep on my sofa. Do _you _sleep on your sofa instead of your bed? No. I didn't think so."

"Then why didn't you say anything when I asked if you were asleep?"

"Because I wanted to see what you would do and you did it. Now go to sleep."

"Fine. I'll go sleep on the sofa _as was planned_."

Quennel shifted the blankets off her legs to sit up, but a hand gripping her wrist and she frowned at it before turning the frown to Sherlock who had grasped it.

"Stay here," he murmured, making her frown deepen when he let go of her wrist. "It's alright, really. Just sleep here."

She couldn't help but continue to frown at him as he turned to lay on his side, his back facing her, and it was then that she noticed he was fully clothed in one of his pale button down shirts and dark trousers and he was lying over the covers instead of under them. She glanced at the duvet in her hand and shuffled to kneel behind him, placing it around him before shifting to lie under the sheet.

He frowned when he felt the duvet wrap around him and turned to look over his shoulder in time to see Quennel shifting to get comfortable under the sheet and sleep. He turned to face the wall in front of him and couldn't help but smile as he pulled the duvet a little tighter around him and closing his eyes to sleep as well.

* * *

><p><em>The Next Morning...<em>

Quennel frowned as she woke in an unfamiliar bed. It took her a moment to remember where she was and when she did she couldn't help but smile and she stretched the sleep from her muscles. She frowned when she heard sound of running water and sat up to realize that Sherlock wasn't lying next to her. Shrugging it off she stretched again, raising her arms above her head and yawning before she smiled again when she caught the scent of breakfast.

"John must be up, then," she guessed, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and stood just as the water from the bathroom stopped.

"Morning, Sherlock," she heard John call from the kitchen as she headed toward the doorway.

"Morning, John," she heard Sherlock reply in a rather chipper tone, making her smile before she froze in the doorway, her sleepy eyes instantly shooting wide when she met with a dripping wet and naked Sherlock. "Morning, Miss Yule."

"Sherlock!" John shouted, realizing what must have happened, having only glanced at Sherlock's state when he'd come from the shower. "Put that towel 'round yourself!"

"Did you sleep well?" Sherlock asked Quennel, ignoring John's order as he used the towel in his hand to dry his hair with one hand, keeping his gaze on her growing blush as she still stared at him in utter shock.

"Uh…" she trailed off, her gaze glued to his face for a moment before she caught her gaze wandering downward but she only got to his chest before she quickly turned her head away completely, her blush deepening at her actions. She didn't catch the corners of his mouth twitch upward in amusement, or the raised eyebrow that followed. "I slept fine. Thanks."

"Sherlock!"

He finally turned around only to have fabric slap him in his face and he realized John had thrown his robe at him. He placed the towel in his hand over his wet hair and pulled on his robe as Quennel sailed past him without looking at him and John stared at her in horror.

"Quennel, I'm so sorry," John breathed as she stepped toward his spot in the kitchen. "He's not used to having a girl as a flatmate."

"It's alright, John," she murmured before looking over the breakfast he'd made.

"Yes, John," Sherlock replied, catching the other man's attention as he tied his robe closed and looked to the doctor, agreeing, "Quite alright."

He gave a tight smile before turning to head into his room and John frowned as he glanced between the doorway and Quennel before he kept his gaze on her.

"Quennel, you…you two didn't…?" he sputtered and she glanced up at him from preparing a plate of bacon and eggs for herself.

"I know what you're thinking, John and no, we didn't," she muttered. "He just thinks he's funny, apparently."

"Oh," John replied, vacantly as she stepped toward the sofa to sit and eat.

"This looks delicious," she smiled, sweetly at him. "And it smells it, too. Thanks for breakfast."

"Y-You're welcome," he replied, still surprised at the whole incident before heading in to fix a plate for himself.

They both ignored Sherlock when he strolled into the room, fixing the collar of his dark blue button down shirt, wearing another pair of dark trousers, his hair still damp. He rounded into the kitchen and took John's plate just as he finished with it before turning to head toward the sofa, grabbing a fork on his way and ignoring John's exasperated glare.

"Smells delightful, John," Sherlock complimented, sitting next to Quennel. "Thank you."

"That was _my _plate, Sherlock," John reported, starting another plate for himself.

"Was it?" he replied, looking at his food as he began stabbing at his eggs. "Well, it's mine now."

"Weren't you rattling on about manners last night?" Quennel recalled, taking a bite of food from her plate. "What happened?"

"That was last night. _This_ is this morning. And it's rude to talk with your mouth full. No one wants to see a mush of egg while you speak. Don't talk with your mouth full."

"John," Quennel nearly whined in confusion as he came into the living room to sit in one of the huge armchairs.

"Don't try to figure him out, it'll only make your head spin," John sighed as he sat and started at his food. "It'll make _my _head ache if I even _try _explaining his behavior."

"Quennel, do you see that face on the wall there?" Sherlock questioned, using his fork to point at the yellow smiley face painted on the wall above them.

She turned and looked up at it with a frown of wonder and replied, "Yes?"

"Sherlock, please, not now," John begged, knowing what was going to happen as Sherlock set his plate down and stood to head toward the fireplace. "It's too early in the morning. At least let us eat."

"What's he gonna—?"

Quennel cut herself off with a scream and ducked on the sofa when Sherlock pulled a pistol and aimed it at the face on the wall, a shot ringing out after only one second. John sighed in exasperation and lowered his forehead to his hand, rubbing his temples as Quennel slowly sat up and stared wide eyes at the face before looking back at Sherlock who lowered the smoking pistol. She looked back at the face then back at him with a dazed smirk.

"Nice shot," she chuckled breathily, making John look at her with wide eyes before looking to Sherlock who gave a tight smile to him before setting the pistol back on the mantle and heading back to his spot at the couch just as Mrs. Hudson came hurrying through the door. "Right between the eyes."

"I heard a shot!" Mrs. Hudson gasped, looking around at the three as they remained casual, especially Sherlock. "Is…everyone alright?"

"Fine, Mrs. Hudson," John sighed before waving a hand at Sherlock. "Just a little target practice."

Mrs. Hudson frowned before looking to Sherlock and Quennel. The reporter looked to her and pointed to the face on the wall and Mrs. Hudson looked to it and sighed.

"Oh, Sherlock," she chided. "Must you make more holes in the wall?"

"It had to be done, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock replied, eating his food. "Things were getting too…_domestic_."

"Three flatmates havin' a conversation is about manners is too _domestic_ for you, eh?" Quennel chuckled, starting at her food again. "What will you do until Saturday?"

Sherlock straightened, looking ahead in thought then looked to Mrs. Hudson as she shook her head at the hole in the wall.

"Mrs. Hudson," he called, drawing her attention to him. "I'm going to need more bullets."

* * *

><p><em>That Afternoon...<em>

Sherlock sat in one of the armchairs, his eyes closed in another contemplative mood, as John sat in the other armchair reading a book, Quennel sitting on the sofa writing in her notebook. She glanced at Sherlock a few times and John looked up from his book once in a while to watch the two of them. He caught Sherlock opening one eye to peek at Quennel a few times, once he kept his gaze on her until she looked up at him and he quickly closed his eyes again.

John looked to his book with a smirk of amusement at the two before he noticed Quennel stand and shuffle toward Sherlock. He frowned in wonder when she stepped next to him, and he was sure that Sherlock knew she was there as she leaned down to stare at him, and inch from his profile. She pulled away to step between his knees and lean down to stare at him again, her nose only centimeters from his as John shifted in his chair to try to see both their faces.

This time, Quennel stayed in her spot, staring at him, squinting slightly as if she were committing every detail of his face to her memory. John remained silent as he only watched the two, wondering how long she would stare at him. Unfortunately, he'd never know. Sherlock ruined it.

"Do you plan on staring at me all day, Miss Yule?" he asked, unmoving, and to John's surprise, she didn't move either.

"Maybe," she replied, deftly. "Sherlock, do you use something on your skin? It's _flawless_."

John gave a hearty laugh, making Sherlock's eyes shoot open and Quennel stood tall as he glared at the doctor when she stepped away with a giggle.

"I'm getting take away," she announced, stepping toward her bag to lift her coat from it and her pocket book. "What would you boys like?"

"Anything is fine with me," John replied, looking back to his book. "Sherlock?"

"Yes, that's fine," he replied, his head lowered back on the back of the chair, his eyes closed again.

John waited until Quennel was out the door before he shut his book and leaned forward on his knees to look at Sherlock.

"What's the matter with you Sherlock?" he instantly questioned.

"That's the second time you've asked me that, John," Sherlock replied, unmoving. "I'm afraid I don't know what you mean."

"I _mean_, you've been acting differently since Quennel came to stay with us, and don't deny it, because I can tell."

"Oh, that's absurd. I've been no different. Why would you say that?"

"First of all, your little argument about us talkin' about you while you were in the room."

"You were being rude."

"Would you rather us talk about you behind your back?"

"Yes. Don't allow me to defend myself and the argument will have more substance."

"See…now I can't tell if you're being serious or sarcastic."

"What _else _do you think I've done differently?" Sherlock questioned, still unmoving.

"This morning you dragged me out of bed to make all of us bacon and eggs," John shot back.

"I always get you up to make me breakfast."

"It was four o'clock in the morning, Sherlock!"

"She gets up early."

John tried very hard _not _to look amused as he replied, "Ah. So it was for _Quennel_, was it?"

Sherlock lifted his head to meet John's gaze and answer, "It was for _all _of us, John."

"And that little streaking display after your shower this morning was for _all_ of us as well?" John shot back. "Because, honestly, I could've done without that, thanks."

"I've done worse."

"To _me_, maybe, but not complete strangers."

"She's a reporter, John," Sherlock replied, shoving himself from the chair to head to the door. "She's seen worse, I'm sure."

John sighed tiredly, bowing his head in exasperation as Sherlock pulled his coat and scarf on from behind the door, and the doctor lifted his head again to stare ahead, calling, "Where're you goin'?"

"To follow Miss Yule," Sherlock replied, pulling his collar up on his coat as John shifted to frown up at him.

"Why?" he questioned, quickly standing and grabbing his jacket to go with him. "She's only getting take away."

"No, she isn't," Sherlock nearly sang as he headed out the door and down the stairs. "Oh, _God_, I knew this case would be interesting. I cannot _wait_ to see the look on her face!"

"What the hell are you talking about?" John questioned, following him down the stairs, and the sleuth stopped them at the front door to hold a piece of paper in front of John's face, making him skid to a stop and frown at it. "What's that?"

"Read it quickly, or I'll leave you behind," Sherlock instructed, slapping it into his friend's hand before turning to call a cab and John frowned at it before quickly opening it to read the piece of notebook paper. He recognized Quennel's handwriting.

_The kidnapper texted. Wants money now. Going to meet. Follow me._

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><p><strong>AN: **I wanted to have a little fun with the lot before the case took a turn. reviews?


	6. Did He Just-?

**A/N: **New chappie! enjoy!

* * *

><p><em><strong>Chapter 6: "Did He Just…?"<strong>_

Quennel swallowed, pulling her scarf a little tighter around her neck against the cold wind blowing across Westminster Bridge, the silver case John had brought from his visit with Mycroft filled with money. She stopped when she saw a figure wearing black, a hood over its head, standing a few yards away from her, facing her. She took in a breath before feigning courage and indifference as she took cautious steps toward it.

"_Stop_ _there_," a mechanically altered voice called, making her frown but she stopped as instructed.

"Where is Deirdra?" she demanded in what she hoped wasn't a shaking tone, unmoving from her spot.

The figure lifted a hand to pull the hood down and Quennel's eyes shot wide at the sight of a red headed woman with dark brown eyes side in terror, a strip of ducked tape over her mouth.

"Deirdra—!"

"_Don't move!_" the voice shouted when Quennel took a step forward, but she stopped and frowned in wonder when she realized something.

"Where is that voice coming from?" she questioned.

Deirdra lifted her other hand to reveal a cell phone in her hand as the voice resumed, "_I can see everything you do, Miss Yule. Do exactly as I say. I don't want to hurt Miss Radcliff. Step slowly toward her, stop in front of her and set the money at her feet_."

Quennel swallowed before stepping slowly toward Deirdra, but she was stopped again by the sound of footsteps and a voice behind her.

"Wait, Miss Yule!"

She stopped dead at the sound of Sherlock's voice and spun around to see him and John running toward her, John stopping next to her as Sherlock took a few steps ahead, not looking away from Deirdra as her gaze darted around at all of them.

"Don't give her _any_ of that money," Sherlock smirked, still staring at Deirdra who frowned in wonder. "Pay close attention, Miss Yule."

He marched toward Deirdra, making her eyes shoot wide in shock as she tried backing away, the voice from the phone shouting at Sherlock to stop, but he didn't. He lifted a hand and yanked the ducked tape from her face, making her gasp in pain before staring at him in disbelief.

"What do you think you're doing?" she snapped. "I'm gonna be _killed_ if you interfere with—!"

Sherlock said nothing as he took the phone from her hand and pressed it to his ear, turning back to Quennel and striding toward her.

"I'm sorry, Deirdra will have to ring you back, Mr. Connolly," he said into the phone. "I have something to show Miss Yule."

"Connolly?" Quennel breathed in wonder before looking to Deirdra. "Adam? That's Adam on the phone?"

"You tell me, Quennel," Sherlock urged, hanging up the phone before finding the number in the call history and showing it to her. "Does this number look familiar to you?"

She frowned at him before looking to the screen of the phone and at seeing the number, her eyes went wide before she looked to Sherlock, sputtering, "That…That's Adam's mobile number. Does that mean…he's the kidnapper?"

"Oh, Quennel," he sighed, lowering the phone to his sighed as he rolled his eyes. "I _told _you to pay attention."

John remained silent, but made sure to keep an arm around Quennel, his free hand taking the case in her hand as Sherlock swiftly turned to Deirdra but remained in his place.

"There _is _no kidnapper, is there Miss Radcliff?" he called, then threw over his shoulder at Quennel and John, "Watch her closely. Note the way she shifts her gaze between us, trying to find the one most likely to believe her. Oh, I believe she's found it."

"Quennel," Deirdra breathed. "There is a pistol being pointed at me from somewhere, by my kidnapper, right now. If they don't get my ransom, they'll kill me!"

"Who, Deirdra?" Quennel questioned, desperately.

"Indeed," Sherlock crooned, still looking at Deirdra. "Who would it be, since there are, as I said before, _no kidnappers_."

"How would you know there aren't any kidnappers?" Deirdra snapped at him.

"If there's more than one, why isn't one of them with you?" Sherlock questioned. "Why use a computer altered voice to make calls if we don't know them?"

He didn't look to Quennel as she stepped next to him, watching Deirdra closely and noticing the panic in her face as he continued, "You staged your flat and your dressing room to look as though you'd been kidnapped. I noticed it in your flat. Two sets of foot prints on the carpet because you were walking around barefoot, then running around in your shoes to trash your flat. Only one pair of shoes missing from your collection in your closet. You wanted us to eliminate Adam from the suspect list immediately by tearing that love letter he sent you in half. You wanted us to believe you were kidnapped by a jealous suitor of his, when, in fact, the two of you were in on this all along.

"You _knew _Quennel would hire the best to investigate your kidnapping, so you had to take _everything_ into consideration to set up your flat for me, and you did pretty well, but you missed a few things. You also relied on Quennel to tell me about your big story you were working on about Brent Stone. How much of _that _was true?"

"All of it," Quennel replied, instead of Deirdra, not looking away from her. "I saw all the paper work."

"All forgeries," Sherlock reported. "She wanted to incriminate Stone for it, and _that _was to be her revenge. Am I right, Miss Radcliff?"

"Dee," Quennel breathed, taking a step toward her, but Sherlock placed a hand on her arm to keep her from going any farther. "Please, tell me this isn't true. Tell me he's wrong."

"I'm never wrong," Sherlock added, but all eyes were on Deirdra as her expression changed from feigning innocence, to glaring at them all in anger.

"You had to go and get _him_, didn't you?" she spat at Quennel, making her frown in wonder. "Of course, Miss Goody-two-shoes has to go and get the _best _of the best!"

"What was the plan?" Sherlock questioned.

Deirdra sighed, rolling her eyes as she reached behind her back and swung her arm out again, aiming a gun at the three of them. John hurriedly ran toward Quennel and gripped her arms to pull her behind himself and Sherlock as they both stood their ground.

"_This_ was the plan," she snapped. "To fool all of you, take the money and get out of this wretched place, with Adam by my side and we'd live happily ever after."

"And the story on Stone?" Sherlock questioned. "Why all the preparation for a story that wasn't true."

"Oh, _that_ was going to be left for Quennel," she smirked, evilly. "Sweet, innocent, wonderful Quennel, but only _half _that story is true. Once I got the money I would've gone back, left the file in her room somewhere with a note that said, 'Please, take my last story.' Like a bleeding heart, she would've, and when half of it was proven false she would've been fired, Brent would've been exposed for his Agency hopping, but not the multiple families and _that _would've been my revenge for _both_ of them!"

"I _told_ you, that was—!"

"Yeah, yeah, 'Wasn't your fault'!" Deirdra cut in, still holding the gun at them. "Do you think I'm _stupid_? You would've said _anything_ to get into my good graces! You wanted my job!"

"That's not true!" Quennel snapped.

"So what now, Miss Radcliff?" Sherlock questioned, pulling a hand behind his back. "Will you kill us all and run away with the money?"

"Well, that _certainly _wasn't Plan A," she shot back just as Quennel glanced down at Sherlock's hand behind his back, making a double take with a frown. He was flexing his fingers toward her in a sort of 'give me' motion. "But yeah, I think I will."

"You'll have to get through us first," Sherlock retorted, hearing Quennel shuffle around behind him for a moment. "Because you gave Miss Yule some very, _very_ good advice before all of this went on. And it was the only thing that was truth."

"And what was _that_?" Deirdra replied sarcastically, just as he felt Quennel place something in his hand and he pulled it in front of him.

"Get a gun," he replied, aiming Quennel's pistol at Deirdra who straightened and steadied her aim with her own gun at them. "Little did she know she wouldn't be defending herself overseas, but from _you_. The one who was supposed to be her best friend."

"Sherlock," John called, making Quennel look to him and gasp as Sherlock didn't move.

"Drop the gun, Mr. Holmes, or I kill your friend," a familiar voice snapped.

"Oh, Adam," Sherlock sighed, recognizing his voice, but not looking away from Deirdra. "Don't you realize, she's only using you, you poor idiot?"

"Yeah, not _really _a good idea to call the man with a _gun _pointed at my head an idiot," John retorted as Quennel stood frozen in place, glancing between the three.

"Well he is an idiot, I mean _really_," Sherlock replied. "What kind of man thinks the woman that promises to take him with her once she's got tons of money will _actually_ take him with her? An Idiot."

"Again, insulting the man with a _gun_ to my head," John snapped, just before he felt the briefcase snatched from his hand.

"Alright, that's enough!" Quennel shouted, making everyone shoot their gazes to her as she held the case over the railing, ready to drop it. "Everyone lower your guns or I drop this and _nobody_ gets the money! And if you shoot me, I _still_ drop it! Now, if you two want this money, you'll lower your guns and let Dr. Watson go. Now!"

Deirdra and Adam looked to each other before lowering their guns and Adam shoved John away as all eyes shot to Sherlock who still had his gun aimed at Deirdra.

"Sherlock," Quennel called, her eyes on him, still holding the case over the railing. "Lower the gun."

Sherlock hesitantly obeyed before Quennel slowly pulled the case back from over the railing and handed it to Adam who snatched it from her and marched toward Deirdra. The three watched Deirdra give a sarcastic wave before turning to run hand in hand with Adam down the bridge before Sherlock turned to hand Quennel's gun back to her.

"We're not going after them?" John questioned, incredulously as Quennel put her gun back into her purse. "What about the money?"

"It wasn't in that case, John," Quennel assured him taking in a breath before resuming, "I took a chance and moved the money into another case."

"I noticed she'd done it before she left," Sherlock replied, straightening himself out as he turned to them. "That's why I let her get a head start on us."

"Still…aren't we goin' after them?" John questioned.

"I phoned Lestrade a while ago. They'll be picked up soon," Sherlock replied before turning to Quennel. "Well, Miss Yule, as unhappily as this case ended for you, I'm finished here."

"Sherlock—!"

"Yes, you are," Quennel nodded, holding a hand toward him as she cut into John's scolding. "Thank you for your services, Mr. Holmes." He shook her hand before she reached into her handbag. "What do I owe you, then?"

"Dinner."

Quennel and John shot wide-eyed gazes at him, Quennel's hand stilling in her purse as she stared at him.

"What?"

"Dinner. Tonight. You _do_ have dinner, yes?"

"Yes, but—"

"Good. We'll leave the flat around seven. Wear something…nice. A dress might be more appropriate for the place I have in mind."

"Um…alright…"

"Very well," he nodded, striding past her and John to head back to the street. "You two can head back to the flat, I've got a few things to take care of. I'll see you later."

John and Quennel stared after him before looking to each other, still in wide-eyed disbelief.

"Did he…just ask me out on a date?"

"I think…he just did."

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><p><strong>AN:** oh...snap. reviews?


	7. Just Desserts

**A/N:** new chappie! sorry this took so long! enjoy!

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><p><em><strong>Chapter 7: Just Desserts<strong>_

"Nervous?" John wondered, watching Quennel rush from the bedroom to her suitcase she'd brought with her.

"How can you tell?" she muttered, not looking at him as she packed the case. "He hasn't been back yet and it's almost seven."

"You look nice," he smiled, taking a seat in his usual armchair as he tried to cheer her up and she turned a smile to him, straightening out her little black cocktail dress.

"Thank you, John," she nodded before they both looked to the open door of the flatwhensomeoneknockedonthe wood. "Oh, hello, Mrs. Hudson!"

"I had to see it for myself," Mrs. Hudson breathed, looking to Quennel with wide eyes. "Did Sherlock _really _ask you to dinner?"

"Um…yes," Quennel nodded and the old woman grinned before hurrying toward Quennel to hug her tightly.

"Oh, thank goodness!" she cheered as John lifted the newspaper from the table next to him to look over it, Mrs. Hudson pulling away from Quennel enough to grin at her. "I'm so worried about him, you see. He's always going on about his cases, and it worries me when he gets so giddy over a murder. He needs a girl in his life, I think. I'm _so _glad he's going to spend more time with you! You seem to be a very nice girl, the way you were so concerned about your friend throughout the case."

"Yes, well, this is just dinner, Mrs. Hudson," she smiled, weakly at the thought of Deirdra. "I doubt he'll be asking me to marry him any time soon. Though I promise I'll try my best to be…somewhat of a distraction."

"That shouldn't be too hard," John smirked, making Quennel glare at him, jokingly.

"Are you ready, Miss Yule?"

All eyes shot to the door as they saw Sherlock standing in the doorway in a black suit and red tie. Quennel swallowed hard at the sight of him and tried to keep her usual confidence with him when she saw his scrutinizing gaze roam over her form before he looked back to her face.

"Y-Yes," she nodded, looking around the room for her purse and coat as he pulled his coat from its usual spot hanging on the back of the door.

"Goodnight, Mrs. Hudson," she called, stepping toward Sherlock as he pulled on his coat. "Goodnight, John."

"Don't wait up, John," Sherlock added, helping Quennel with her coat. "We'll be back late."

"We will?" she frowned up at him in wonder.

He only lifted a hand to silently entreat her to head out of the flat, and she obeyed with one last wave to the two in the flat before Sherlock shut the door behind him, both heading down the steps.

"Where'd you get the suit?" Quennel couldn't help but ask when she stopped at the bottom of the steps, waiting for him to catching up.

"Last minute purchase," he replied, sailing past her and she hurried after him as he headed out of the building and into the street. He stopped and waited for her, turning to her as she caught up and added, "The dress is a good choice, by the way."

"Is that your twisted way of saying I look nice?" she smirked up at him.

"No," he frowned. "If that was what I meant to say that's what I would've said. Although…you _do_ look rather fetching tonight."

Quennel's eyes shot wide at him in shock, but he seemed oblivious to her reaction as a limo rolled up next to them.

"Ah! Right on time!" he smiled, leaning toward the back door to open it and pull Quennel by the hand toward the opening. "Quick! Get in!"

She frowned at him now in wonder but did as he said and he climbed into the back seat after her. As she adjusted to be comfortable she gasped when she looked ahead of her to see a thin man in a tuxedo with thinning brown hair and a stoic expression. His gaze seemed familiar, but she could only concentrate on not fidgeting as he studied her for a moment before turning his gaze to Sherlock as he closed the door.

"Who is your friend, Sherlock?" the man asked, making Quennel frown and look to Sherlock to catch a slight glare from him to the man as the car started moving.

"This is Miss Quennel Yule," Sherlock introduced, mechanically. "She's a reporter for the BBC. I just finished up a case for her."

"Is that so?" the man smiled, looking to Quennel again and making her swallow as his gaze fell to one of her legs exposed from the slit of her coat. She quickly pulled the coat over her knee, making his smile drop slightly before he looked back to Sherlock. "You still have the money I lent you?"

"Oh, Mycroft, I had to buy this Monkey Suit with _something_, didn't I?" Sherlock smirked, reveling in the glare the other man gave him. "Yes, of course I have the money. Every penny of it. I'll get it back to you soon. I may need it again."

"For what, pray tell?" Mycroft asked, irritably.

"Who knows?" Sherlock shrugged as Quennel glanced between them in confusion before he leaned toward her to quickly introduce, "This is my brother, Mycroft. I'm very sorry you had to meet him."

"Yes, my irritating little brother thinks me to be his enemy," Mycroft smirked as Sherlock looked out the window at the passing scenery. "But I'm glad to see you were able to acquire a date for this evening, Sherlock."

Quennel turned a glare to the back of Sherlock's head as he made a sideways glare at Mycroft for the statement.

"_That's_ the reason you asked me to dinner?" she questioned Sherlock, making Mycroft smirk in amusement at what he was about to witness. "Where are we going, Sherlock?"

"He invited me to a dinner party tonight, and I continued to refuse him, but he seems to think my presence is required," Sherlock began, not looking away from the window. "Seeing as there will be many _seemingly _important people there I reconsidered when I realized it would be a chance to rub their noses in how stupid they've all been lately. Naturally, I would need a stunning, clever woman on my arm for the evening. Not _too_ clever, but clever enough to be worthy of being on my arm. After the past few days, I found you fit the bill."

Quennel stared at Sherlock as he didn't look away from the window, and Mycroft watched intently as she sat back in her seat a bit more. She thought of speaking up and telling him he was lying, because she could tell he was, but she wouldn't say as much in front of Mycroft. She could tell they thrived on the humiliation of one another and she refused to be apart of that.

* * *

><p><em>The Dinner Party...<em>

"Tedious," Sherlock muttered as he and Quennel stood in a corner watching the room bustle with suits and dresses as they sipped at their glasses of wine. "All of them. Not one person here is interesting enough to talk to. I'm glad you're here, Quennel."

"Well, that's it for you," she retorted, taking his glass of wine with one hand as he frowned at her. "You're cut off. You just said you were glad I was here. _That's_ the wine talking."

"Don't be ridiculous," he grumbled, taking his wine back as she smirked at him. "Wine never gets to me. And it's true. You're the only person here interesting enough to chat with. All these others are…predictable."

"Are they?" she smirked, taking a sip of wine before looking to one of the men with his wife and nodding toward him as she nudged Sherlock's arm. "Tell me about that man with his wife near the column."

He took one look at the two before looking back at Quennel, replying, "He's having an affair with his secretary and his wife knows but doesn't dare say anything to keep their marriage of…ten years intact. She's probably hoping it's temporary."

"Blimey, that _is_ predictable," she muttered before taking another sip of her wine. She spotted a handsome man shaking hands with Mycroft and asked him, "What about him? That man with your brother."

Sherlock took a glance at him before blurting, "Gay."

"No!" Quennel breathed in shock looking at him with wide eyes before looking to the other man then sneering, "All the gorgeous men are battin' for the other team…" She trailed off as she glanced at Sherlock before adding, "…or married to their work."

"You wouldn't be referring to _me_, would you, Miss Yule?" he replied, knowingly.

"Why yes, Mr. Holmes, I am," she retorted through a smirk. She glanced around before chewing on her lower lip in thought then turning to him again and taking his wine to set both her glass and his on the table near them. "It's too posh here. Let's go."

"But…we were _driven_ here," he reminded her as she took his hand and pulled him toward the exit.

"We'll catch a cab," she said, both stopping to get their coats from the coat-checker near the door. "Besides, you owe me a date."

"What?" he frowned in wonder as she pulled him by the arm out of the building and into the streets of London.

"You asked me to dinner, and I want a _proper_ dinner date, not one that your brother invited you to," she retorted, stopping to hail a cab. "If it's too much for that brilliant mind of yours, _I'll_ pick the restaurant."

"Quennel, we just _had_ dinner," he replied as she pulled him into the cab that stopped for them.

"Then we'll have dessert," she grinned before turning to the driver to tell him where to go and the cab began rolling down the street as she sat back with a sigh. "Now we can talk about why you lied in front of Mycroft about why you brought me with you to that dinner party."

"I told you. I needed a pretty girl on my arm."

"Because I'm pretty, or because you like me?" she shot back, making him frown at her in wonder. "Admit it, Sherlock, you like me or you wouldn't have asked me to that thing in the first place."

"I think _you_ had too much wine at that party," he retorted before looking out the window to decipher where they were headed. "You were there so I asked you to come with me. every time I go to one of those things on my own Mycroft annoys me and if it isn't him it's woman after woman coming up to me in an attempt to ingratiate themselves, and I wanted none of that tonight."

"If it's that much of a bore why go at all?" she wondered, honestly. "There's a reason it's _called_ an invitation. It means you can go if you'd like or not. If you hate it so much, don't go."

"I _have_ to go," he grumbled, making her frown at him in wonder but he explained, "Sometimes…very rarely…I end up getting interesting cases when I go. They all know me and what I can do. That's why Mycroft asks for favors all the time. It keeps me from boredom."

"Why?" she wondered. "What happens when you're bored?"

"I shoot things," he replied, flatly. "Mrs. Hudson doesn't like it, so I have to get my entertainment elsewhere." He suddenly turned to look at her and asked, "Will you be staying in our flat for much longer?"

"Eager to be rid of me," she smirked before sighing, "I had planned on leaving tonight after dinner."

"You can stay the night if you want," he replied, making her frown at him in wonder. "You'll be far too tired to head home. You can leave tomorrow."

"You just want me in your bed again, don't you?" she smirked and her frown returned when he looked at her with an unreadable expression.

"Possibly," he replied, making her eyes widen for a moment before she cleared her throat when the cab came to a stop. Without a word, Sherlock climbed out of the cab, following by Quennel and she rummaged through her pockets to pull out some money to pay him, but Sherlock beat her to it. "Now, where is this place you've chosen for dessert?"

"Oh…" she trailed off a moment, suddenly noticing the cab gone and Sherlock standing next to her before she looked around the street and took his hand, replying, "This way."

She grabbed his hand and pulled him down the street toward a small bakery, stopping to cross the street and hurrying into the bakery.

"We should get something for John and Mrs. Hudson, too," Quennel smiled, stepping in front of the display of pastries. "What do they like?"

"How should I know?" Sherlock frowned in wonder at her before looking to the display himself.

Quennel straightened, frowning at him as he looked back at her in question before she asked, "You _live_ with them."

"That doesn't mean I know their tastes in desserts," he replied. "However, I'm sure John might like some chocolate fudge and Mrs. Hudson may like some carrot cake."

Quennel smiled, stepping closer to him to loop her arm around one of his and making him frown down at her.

"I knew it didn't get past you," she murmured before sighing, "So what shall we get for us?"

"I don't eat sweets," he replied, looking away from her. "Choose what you like. I suspect you won't be paying, since you consider this a 'date,' so I'll pay for it."

"Let's see if you can figure out what I'll choose," she smirked, looking up at him as he glanced down at her.

"Vanilla bean scone," he replied without missing a beat.

"And how did you deduce that?" she asked.

"The way you take your coffee and tea," he replied. "You like things sweet, and though you wouldn't have a scone with your coffee, you would certainly have it with your tea. Am I right?"

"Yet another brilliant deduction, Mr. Holmes. Well done," she smiled with a nod of approval before making her order. "I'll pay for John's and Mrs. Hudson's treats."

"No need," Sherlock replied as he noticed the man come from the back room to step behind the counter, a grin over his lips. "Aaron."

"Sherlock Holmes!" the baker grinned, holding his hand over the display counter to shake Sherlock's hand, which he did. "What would you and your lovely friend like tonight? On the house!"

"Cheers, Aaron," Sherlock nodded with a smile before leaning toward Quennel to murmur, "Pick what you like, dear. We'll take it home tonight."

She swallowed, glancing to him as he pulled his arm from hers to lean on the counter and speak to Aaron as she pointed out what she wanted, feeling her cheeks flare with a blush.

"And how is your brother?" Sherlock asked Aaron as he gathered Quennel's order. "Staying out of trouble, I expect."

"Trying to keep his promise to you to keep it that way," Aaron replied. "Doin' a bang up job of it, mind you."

"I'd hate for you to owe me _another_ favor," Sherlock smirked as Aaron handed a big bag to Quennel. "Thank you, Aaron."

"Cheers, mate!" Aaron called back as Quennel took Sherlock's arm again and they stepped toward the door and out of the bakery.

"I know you said you didn't like sweets, but I got you a piece of spice cake," she smiled as they crossed the street. "You might like it."

"And what makes you think _that_, Miss Yule?"

"Because I've made a few deductions of my _own_, Mr. Holmes," she smirked up at him.

* * *

><p><em>221 B Baker Street...<em>

"Oh, you shouldn't have, you two," Mrs. Hudson smiled, taking the box Quennel handed to her with a sweet smile.

"Quennel insisted," Sherlock replied, handing a box to John and stopping him as he stepped toward Quennel.

"I thought you said you were having a late night," John recalled, taking the box as Sherlock stepped toward the couch with his own box, Quennel heading the same way to sit next to him with a bag in her hand.

"We got bored," Quennel shrugged before looking to John. "Have you got wine?"

"I think so," John nodded, heading toward the kitchen as Mrs. Hudson sat at the table.

"None for me, thank you," Mrs. Hudson called, telling him not to bring a glass for her. "But I think we could use some silverware."

"I'll help you, John," Quennel called, standing and setting her bag onto the table next to Mrs. Hudson and hurrying toward the kitchen as John began gathering forks from random places, making her chuckle. "One of Sherlock's experiments?"

"Not a clue," John admitted, turning to the fridge to open it. "Not a care, either. Here's the wine."

"Where are the glasses?" Quennel frowned, looking in one of the cupboards above the countertop.

"I don't think he has any," John replied. "We'll just use cups. Quennel?"

She turned to him with three mugs in her hands as he stepped closer to her, glancing toward the living room and making her frown in wonder.

"Where did he take you?" he murmured, not wanting Sherlock to hear him.

"A banquet his _brother_ invited him to," she muttered. "He needed a date."

"Oh, I'm sorry," he frowned in sympathy.

"Don't be," she smiled, making him frown in wonder before she tapped the box in his hand and leaned closer to whisper, "We got free dessert."

She grinned and winked at him before turning to saunter back into the living room as he smirked and headed after her.

* * *

><p><em>Later...<em>

"Thanks for letting me stay, Sherlock," Quennel smiled, sitting on the couch as Sherlock stepped toward the window, grabbing his violin and setting it under his chin to begin playing it. "I didn't wanna have to rush out of here after that lovely party."

Sherlock said nothing as he began playing, making her smile as she only sat back on the couch with her cup of wine, the bottle drained between herself and John and he had gone to bed thirty minutes before. Only she and Sherlock were left awake. She wouldn't be able to sleep easily anyway.

When Sherlock stopped playing she clapped, making him turn and frown at her, saying, "I thought you were getting ready for bed."

"I won't be able to sleep," she replied, her smile falling as she looked into her cup of wine. "I suppose the case is still bothering me. Deirdra betraying me and leaving with Adam."

"Really?" he frowned in wonder, setting his violin down again and she frowned back at him as he approached her. "I always sleep _brilliantly_ after a case."

Quennel couldn't help scoffing as he sat next to her to reach for his own cup of wine and she replied, "Yeah, but the cases aren't _personal_ for you. I doubt you'd take anything _personally_ in a case."

"The only thing I take personally is the _fun_ I have in it," he retorted.

"I know," she sighed, downing the last of her wine before looking to him with a smile, making him look back at her with a frown of wonder. She said nothing for a moment before leaning toward him and quickly pressing a kiss to his cheek, murmuring, "Thanks for dinner…and dessert."

She stood, Sherlock watching her as she stepped in front of him to head toward the bedroom to get ready for bed, calling, "Good night, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock cleared his throat before replying, with less confidence than before, "Good night, Miss Yule."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** reviews?


	8. The Engineer's Daughter

**A/N:** new chappie! this has taken WAY too long, I know. enjoy!

* * *

><p><em><strong>Chapter 8: The Engineer's Daughter<strong>_

"Well, it's been…enlightening," Quennel smiled, standing by the door of Sherlock and John's flat, shouldering her purse and pulling the handle up on her small suitcase. "I hope to see you boys again. Maybe collaborate on a case?"

"So you can report my cases over the media? No, thank you," Sherlock blurted from one of the armchairs as John stepped toward Quennel to hug her goodbye.

"You're already in the media…so to speak," she shrugged, letting an arm hang around John's shoulders and making Sherlock shoot a frown to her. "Your lovely little website you've created, and John's blog of course."

"Excuse me?"

The three looked to the door to see a girl of about eighteen in a long, purple raincoat staring wide, jade eyes at Quennel and John, her raven black hair slightly damp from the rain pouring outside.

"Is…is this where Sherlock Holmes lives?" she asked, cautiously as she glanced to the piece of paper in her hand. "I was told I could find him here."

"And so you have," Quennel smiled, moving aside with a wave of her arm to gesture the girl come inside, John doing the same as Sherlock stood.

"Thank you," the girl nodded, stepping into the room and looking around, her eyes landing on Sherlock. She extended her hand, hurrying toward him as she said, "Mr. Holmes, my name is Olivia Felton. I need your help."

"Of course, that's obvious," Sherlock nodded, shaking her hand shortly.

"Can I get you something?" John asked Olivia as he headed toward the kitchen.

"No, thank you, Mister…?"

"Doctor," John corrected, heading back toward them. "John Watson."

"Nice to meet you," Olivia nodded, shaking his hand. "I'm sorry, but I'd like to skip the rest of the pleasantries, if I could? Mr. Holmes, it's…my father. He's been—"

"Kidnapped, yes, I can see that," Sherlock nodded, making her jade eyes shoot to him in surprise.

"How…How did you—?"

"You're eighteen years old," Sherlock began. "American, that's obvious enough by the accent, but you've been living here for some time. Not long enough that you're familiar with getting around the city, going by the fact that you're holding a small map and my address on that piece of paper. You moved here after the death of your mother, leaving you with your father who taught you practicality by the way you're dressed, but your mother was able to teach you some fashion sense before she passed. Your father is your only family now, I suspect."

"And how do you know her father has been kidnapped?" Quennel asked, stepping toward Olivia to wrap an arm around her shoulders as the younger woman bowed her head, suddenly depressed.

"Had he been killed she would be a grieving mess," Sherlock shrugged, sitting in the armchair again. "She's all urgency now. Was there a note?"

"No," Olivia replied with a shake of her head. "He was at work. He never came home last night. He never does that. He always comes straight home, or if he has to make a stop he let's me know. But he wouldn't have gone anywhere last night because last night—"

"Was your birthday," Sherlock nodded. "There's some flour paste in your hair. You were up all night waiting for him, I suspect."

"Did you call the police?" John wondered, stepping next to Sherlock, and Olivia shook her head.

"My father said to get the best if anything happened to him," she replied. "He said I would _need_ the best."

"What does your father do for a living?" Sherlock questioned Olivia.

"He's an engineer," Olivia replied.

"Sounds like _he_ knows who would come after him," Quennel noticed.

"A week ago, a man with an eye patch came to the door looking for him," Olivia shuddered, wringing the papers in her hands as tears came to her eyes. "He wasn't home, but even if he was, I wouldn't tell him. He frightened me. We've only been here a year. I don't know how dad could've gotten mixed up in something with someone like him. He's been so secretive the past month…I don't think I'll be much help."

"Where does he work?" Sherlock asked.

"He had a few things he was working on," Olivia replied. "But there was one project he wouldn't discuss with me. He's usually so eager to tell me all about his projects, but he wouldn't tell me _anything_ about what he did from 3 o'clock to 6 o'clock in the afternoon."

"Only three hours?" John frowned in wonder as Sherlock tapped the tips of his fingers in front of his chin, his gaze intent on Olivia as Quennel still stood with her arm around her.

"Well, how can I possibly discover anything about his kidnapping if you know nothing about where he went for three hours?" Sherlock wondered, placing his hands on the armrests to tap his fingers on them.

Without missing a beat, Olivia reaching into the inside pocket of her raincoat to pull out a black book, explaining, "This is his day-planner. He has all of his appointments in it. I checked the days and times he would work on this secret project, but all I found was this."

She opened to the date her father was kidnapped and stepped next to Sherlock to show it to him. He stood and took the planner from her hands to look at what was written on the square with the date. There was only one thing written: 3-6 BI.

"I don't know what BI could possibly be," Olivia confessed as he looked over the pages, finding the same thing in every time slot for 3 pm to 6 pm.

"Initials, of course," he replied, not looking from the planner. "A name, or a company, perhaps. Most likely a name. If he was being so secretive about it he wouldn't be so sloppy as to use the initials of the company. Too easy to deduce."

"John, can I use your laptop?" Quennel asked, making Olivia and Sherlock frown at her, but John nodded and handed it over to her. She sat at the table in the kitchen and began typing furiously, making Sherlock stare at her before handing the planner back to Olivia and stepping toward her.

"What are you doing?" he asked as Quennel kept her eyes on the screen.

"Olivia, what's your address?" Quennel asked, ignoring Sherlock's question. Olivia stepped forward and showed her the map she used to make her way to 221 Baker Street from her home. Quennel continued typing then decided to answer Sherlock's question. "I'm looking for building projects in the area around her home."

"What time would your father get home?" Sherlock asked her, looking at the screen behind Olivia.

"Around 6:30," Olivia replied, frowning at the two as John came up next to the three as well.

"That one," Sherlock reported, pointing at a listing over Quennel's shoulder on the screen. "Who's commissioned it?"

"Benjamin Isham," Quennel replied, her eyes on the listing as she clicked on it. "Oh, sorry…_Sir_ Benjamin Isham."

"BI!" John realized.

"That's not far from here," Sherlock noticed. "We can walk. Come on."

He was soon at the door, grabbing his coat and scarf, making Olivia frown at him, tucking the planner in her coat before racing after him as Quennel shut the laptop and John hurried after him as well.

"We're going there _now_?" Olivia asked, racing after Sherlock as he made his way down the stairs, followed by the other two.

"Well, I have to get a look at this secret project, don't I?" he replied, turning down the road.

"But how will you know what it is?" she asked, catching up with him. "It can't possibly be the building itself. That's hardly a secret."

"Obviously," he shrugged. "It's somewhere inside or under the building. Or perhaps not even at the site at all. We'll find out when we get there."

"Does this mean…you're taking on my case?" Olivia wondered, staring at him with wide jade eyes and he glanced at her as they continued walking. She was so hopeful, so worried for her father, probably praying he wasn't dead.

"Your father isn't dead, Miss Felton," he assured her, making her give a slight frown, but relief washed over her expression after a moment.

"Really?" she breathed, making him nod. "How…can you know that?"

"If the kidnappers had wanted him dead, they'd have done it at the sight. There hasn't been any news about a body there, it would've been the most recent article on the listing. Also, someone would've contacted you by now. They need him."

"For what?" she asked.

"That's what we'll find out," he replied. "But most likely to _build_ something."

"He is _amazing_ to watch when he works," Quennel expressed to John as they strolled behind Sherlock and Olivia.

"That's what I thought when I first met him," John nodded with a slight smirk. "Still do. I used to blurt out whenever he observed something…like 'amazing'."

"Well it is," she smirked.

"And how are you doing?" he asked, making her give a slight frown before she realized what he was talking about.

"I'm alright," she nodded. "I thought I'd be more broken up about losing Dee like that but…she was more of a colleague than a real friend. I always knew the friendship was one sided."

"Still, it can't be easy," he guessed.

"Easier than I'd thought it'd be," she confessed.

"Here it is!"

They shot their gazes ahead as Sherlock called out, standing in front of an unfinished building with Olivia next to him, staring at it.

"So, how do we get in?" Quennel wondered, stepping up to the other side of Sherlock as John stepped up next to Olivia.

"We _walk_ in," he replied, stepping toward the gate surrounding the project, examining the lock.

"Sherlock, it's the middle of the day," John reminded him. "You can't just break in and enter in broad daylight."

"We've done it before, John," he retorted, examining the padlock keeping the chain around the gate.

"And you were nearly killed," John recalled.

"Olivia, one of your hairpins," Sherlock ordered, holding an expectant hand toward her. She pulled one of the pins from her hair and set it in his palm as he kept his gaze on the lock. He started using the pin on the lock as the three watched him, and in less than a minute, the lock came undone and he pulled it off the chain to let it all fall away from the gate. "And the game is on. Come along, everyone."

"Is he always like this?" Olivia asked Quennel and John over her shoulder, following Sherlock through the gate.

"Pretty much," John replied, pulling the gate shut behind him.

Sherlock led the three into the site, concentrating on where he was headed.

"Where are we going?" Olivia asked Quennel as they kept their eyes on Sherlock.

"Engineering station," Sherlock called, having heard her. "Your father didn't leave here. He was taken from here, I'm sure of it. He was _walked_ out of here."

"How can you know that?" Quennel asked.

"No signs of struggle leading to the exit," he explained, his stride never breaking as he made his way to the lift, giving it a quick examination. "No signs here, either."

"They could've taken him down the stairs," Quennel theorized.

"Don't disappoint me, Miss Yule," he retorted as they entered the lift. "Why would you take a struggling man down a flight of stairs? Too much kicking and screaming. Easier to take them down the lift if they were struggling, but he wasn't. He _walked_ out, _willingly_."

They all trailed into the lift and John shut the doors. He stepped toward Sherlock who pressed a button on the panel to take them to the floor he needed. Quennel comforted Olivia on the other side as the young woman gazed around the lift as if lost.

"So…another tagalong?" John smirked at Sherlock as the lift moved up. "Why'd you bring this one along?"

"I didn't," Sherlock replied. "She followed. Aren't you paying attention?"

"You could've left her with Quennel at the flat," John observed.

"Could have, yes," Sherlock agreed, but said nothing else as the lift stopped and he opened the door to saunter out into a hall draped in plastic. "Ah! His desk. Lovely."

"Where?!" Olivia called, racing after him to stop with him at the desk littered with papers and pencils and pens and small tools. "There's nothing…"

The three looked to her in wonder before Sherlock began examining the papers on the desk and Quennel stepped toward Olivia whose eyes were darting around the desk.

"What wrong?" Quennel asked, wrapping an arm around her shoulders as she stared at the desk as if lost.

"There's nothing…personal here," she breathed as Sherlock rummaged. "He always has _something_. A picture, or something around. Especially when he was so busy."

"What are these?" John frowned at the papers on the desk.

"Nothing important," Sherlock reported. "Which bothers me."

"Maybe not important to _you_," Quennel retorted, rummaging through the papers as well. "A reporter takes _everything_ into interest when it comes to investigation."

"There aren't any blueprints," Olivia noted, making Sherlock glance at her as she looked to the desk. "He should have blueprints of the project, at least _one_ copy."

"Maybe he took them with him," John guessed as Sherlock and Quennel still rummaged.

"Why would he take them with him?" Quennel asked, not looking away from her task.

"Maybe…the kidnapper needed them?" Olivia wondered.

"Well done, Olivia," Quennel smiled. "Now we've got a proper team, haven't we, Mr. Holmes? Sherlock?"

She looked up at him when he didn't answer to find that he was leaning down to look under the table.

"What have you found?" John asked, leaning down as well as Quennel continued her search of the surface. Sherlock stood with a huge grin on his face, a cardboard tube in his hands and John asked, "What's that?"

"Blueprints," he grinned, looking the tube over. "It must be a copy. Taped to the underside of the table. Oh, your dad is clever, Olivia."

"I've got a few notes here," Quennel reported. "They just have times on them."

"This one has a word on it," Olivia noticed, holding a note up to Quennel. "'Done.'"

"Nobody move," Sherlock called, looking to the dirt covering the floor and making the three freeze as they stared at him staring at the floor, his eyes darting around it. "Your father wears a size eleven shoe, yes?"

Olivia only nodded, watching him before he pointed to one of the prints.

"That's the kidnapper's print," he observed, pulling his phone out and snapped a picture. "He has a limp. Size nine shoe."

"A limp?" Olivia frowned.

"How can you know that?" Quennel wondered.

"The toe of the left foot has left a drag mark in the dirt on the floor," he replied.

"The man with the eye patch had a limp!" Olivia recalled.

"Perfect," Sherlock grinned.

"We should get these papers back to the flat and look over them," Quennel suggested, gathering them up. "There just _might_ be something else here."

"You think we should phone Lestrade?" John wondered as he helped Olivia and Quennel gather the papers on the desk.

"So the police can come bumbling around here and get nowhere, as usual?" Sherlock retorted, watching the three gather the papers. "I can manage this on my own."

"So how was he walked out?" Quennel questioned as the three followed Sherlock back to the lift.

"The man with the eye patch knew where Mr. Felton lived, but I'm sure he didn't know he had a daughter, seeing as there are no photos or personal items anywhere on the desk to link Olivia to him. Once he found that out when he visited the home looking for him, he would have filed that away to use against him later. Last night, for example."

"Are you saying…he threatened my father?" Olivia shuddered as they stepped into the lift.

"No, he threatened _you_ to get your father to cooperate," Sherlock replied, coldly.

"So…if I hadn't answered the door—"

"No, Olivia, this wasn't your fault," John assured her. "These men wouldn't have been able to be stopped, no matter what you did or didn't do."

She nodded, solemnly before bowing her head in sorrow.

"It's alright, Olivia," Quennel assured her as well. "We'll get your father back. If anyone can get him back, it's Sherlock Holmes."

"Best not give her too much hope," Sherlock warned, shooting Quennel's and Olivia's gazes to him. "But, I also know he's still alive…at the moment. They need him for something, as I said before, and these blueprints are the key."

They were silent as they made their way back to 221 B, but John, Quennel and Olivia noticed the sound of sirens coming closer. The police cars whizzed past them down the street, but Sherlock continued back toward the flat, never breaking his stride. The other three noticed the police cars heading toward the building they had just come from.

"Uh…Sherlock?"

"Don't panic, John," Sherlock answered, heading into their building and up the stairs as they all followed.

Once upstairs, Quennel handed her papers over to Olivia to hold to move everything off the table in the lounge, then let John and Olivia spread the papers over the surface. Sherlock examined the tube, trying to figure out how he'd get the blueprints out.

"Ok, so we've got notes with times on them and one that says 'Done,'" Quennel reported, looking at the papers. "What could that mean?"

"Done with the project?" John guessed.

"You're all looking at the wrong things!" Sherlock snapped before sliding the blueprints from the tube and spreading them over the papers on the table in front of the three. "This is what we need to be looking at."

The group frowned in wonder at the blueprint at the top of the pile.

"It's a piece of something," John noticed before Sherlock moved that one and looked to the next blueprint. "And another."

"It's drawn up strangely," Quennel noticed. "Like a slice of pie…or a slice of whatever he was building."

"They're _all_ like that?" Sherlock noticed, sifting through the pile. "Olivia, has he ever done this before?"

"Not that I'm aware," she admitted, her gaze on the blueprints.

"Looks like we've got some work to do," Quennel noticed. "You boys can take a look at the blueprints, us girls will handle the papers and notes. What do you say, Mr. Holmes?"

"Brilliant idea, Miss Yule," Sherlock replied.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** if you kinda recognize this...the young woman with the missing father...yeah, I watched the Great Mouse Detective and had to get that in here somehow. reviews?


	9. Blueprints

**A/N:** new chappie! enjoy!

* * *

><p><em><strong>Chapter 9: Blueprints<strong>_

"As usual, Sherlock, you were right," Quennel sighed, looking over the papers in front of her. "These are just receipts. But these notes…I'm _certain_ these have something to do with this."

She sighed and leaned back in the chair at the table, rubbing her face before looking to Olivia, asleep on the sofa. She looked to her watch, checking the time.

Nearly 4 a.m.

She rubbed her eyes tiredly before looking to Sherlock amongst the blueprints spread out around the floor.

"Any luck?" she asked him as he still stared at the blueprints.

"A bit," he muttered and she couldn't help but smile at his focus before glancing around the room again.

"Where's John?" she frowned. "Weren't you just talking to him?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied and she frowned at him before smirking as she stood to head toward Olivia, draping a blanket over her. "Do you like puzzles, Miss Yule?"

She frowned at him again as she turned to head toward his project. "Puzzles?"

"Yes, puzzles," Sherlock replied, sorting the blueprints out so they sat next to each other in rows.

"Yes, I enjoy puzzles," she nodded, staring at the papers as she stood next to him, folding her arms in front of her. "In fact I'm working on one now, in my spare time. It's called The Consulting Detective. Taking longer than I would've expected."

She gave Sherlock a coy, sideways smile just as he eyed her out of his peripheral vision, catching her reference.

"What do you make of this one, then?" he asked, turning to her as he gestured toward the blueprints at his feet, making her frown between him and the prints.

"Make of what? They're blueprints."

"Oh, no, Miss Yule. _This_ is a puzzle."

Her frown deepened before he knelt down to point at the blueprint closest to him and she squatted next to him, watching his hand trail over the print.

"Notice the folding marks here," he began. "Then the places where pencil or pen has trailed off over it while making corrections, not in perfect line with the original print. The tape marks where it's been taped to something else then removed. Every print has these identical details. What do you think, Miss Yule? I've nearly handed it to you on a silver platter."

Quennel stared at each of the prints hard before lifting one and examining the folds then folding it on the exact line. Neither of them noticed Olivia stir and sit up, rubbing her eyes as she frowned at them but said nothing. Quennel only folded one side then examined the rest and Sherlock watched her intently, hoping she wasn't _as_ common as everyone else. Her eyes widened in realization as something seemed to click and she began folding the blueprint, hastily along the given folds before it made a perfect slice, the print of the model only in sight and she fit it together with the one next to it…aligning it perfectly with the next piece, and the tape residue from where it had been put together with that piece lined up exactly right, every pencil and pen mark, too.

"Puzzle," she breathed, looking to Sherlock and grinning as he nodded.

"A puzzle, exactly," he replied, and it was then that they both realized how close they were to each other. So close Sherlock could smell the coffee on her breath mixed with the subtle perfume she wore, and Quennel could see the muscles in his jaw twitch as he clenched it, making her swallow.

"Found something?" Olivia called, making them both look to her with a start as she glanced between them in wonder.

"We've figured out your father's blueprints," Quennel replied.

"You two, put this puzzle together," Sherlock ordered, standing and taking a step back as he pulled out his phone. "I've an inquiry to make."

"Where's John?" Olivia wondered, sitting up on the sofa and stretching.

"Back," John announced, stepping into the flat from the front door with bags in his hands. "I found an all night take away place. Thought we should eat."

"I don't eat during cases, John, remember?" Sherlock retorted, heading into his room as he typed on his phone. "Slows me down."

"Yes, well, the rest of us can eat, can't we?" John retorted as he made his way to the kitchen. Olivia knelt down next to Quennel who showed her what she was doing to make the image on the blueprints. "What are you doing?"

"We figured out how to see what he's been working on," Quennel explained as John approached. "Just fold along the lines and put them together like a puzzle."

John knelt down to help the girls as Sherlock returned and made a beeline for his laptop on the kitchen table. Once they all finished they stood to get a look at what they'd put together, making them all stare at it in disbelief.

"Sherlock," John called, warily. "We've finished. Do you know what these prints are for?"

"I knew the moment I figured out it was in pieces," Sherlock replied, finishing with the computer and stepping toward them to look at the print. "It's a missile."

"Has this got something to do with your brother?" Quennel asked Sherlock, frowning to him in wonder. "He _is_ part of the government."

"You haven't been completely honest with me…have you Miss Felton?" Sherlock asked, making her look to him with wide eyes as she met her gaze with a cold one.

"W-What do you mean?" she sputtered, her heart thumping so hard her pulse could be seen.

"Your father didn't tell you to come here, did he?" Sherlock elaborated. "You went to someone else before coming here. Someone told you I could find your father, and I'm wondering how you know him."

"Know who?" Olivia breathed before she swallowed, hard.

Sherlock stepped closer to her, looming over her with an icy stare and she gasped when he was suddenly in her personal space.

"Mycroft Holmes," he replied. "Benjamin Isham is a name he uses for some of his projects. How on Earth would an insignificant little American like yourself know Mycroft? Unless it was through someone else. Your father for instance? Now, Miss Felton, my next question is very simple: How does your father know him?"

Olivia was letting out shuddering breaths before she finally replied, "My father was working for him. Well, he was in one of the government departments, anyway. When he didn't tell me about this project I assumed that's what it was for. That's why I didn't press him for any details. I thought, the less I knew, the better."

"Plausible deniability," Quennel nodded, drawing Olivia's wide-eyed stare to her.

"Exactly," she nodded before turning back to Sherlock. "That's all I know."

"I believe you now," Sherlock nodded.

"So he was kidnapped because of this," John guessed.

"Oh, I'm certain," Sherlock replied. "I called Mycroft. He knew if he came to me about this I would say 'no'. He's getting smarter."

"Does this tell you who kidnapped him?" Olivia hoped.

"England has many enemies that would kidnap someone for government secrets," John reported.

"But…not all of them have an eye-patch and a limp," Quennel replied, digging into her jeans pocket for her phone to work on it.

"What are you doing?" John frowned at her as she still worked on her phone.

"Mr. Holmes has his connections, I have _mine_," she smirked, placing the phone to her ear as she gave Sherlock a wink. "Hello, Calvin. Sorry about the late hour. I need you to look through your records for a man with a limp and an eye patch."

"Who's Calvin?" John frowned.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock questioned, nearly glaring at her.

"Being resourceful," she replied, but he only continued glaring at her, making her roll her eyes and lower the phone to her chest to keep Calvin from hearing. "He's one of my resources on the seedy underbelly of every nation. He's got information on all known mercenaries and the governments that hire them. Call it 'following a hunch'." She lifted the phone back to her ear when she heard the faint mumble over the earpiece, adding, "Yeah, sorry, Cal. What have you got?"

She listened as Sherlock nearly marched toward the couch then sat in a huff, John and Olivia watching him the whole way. John smirked in amusement and stepped toward Sherlock to sit next to him as Quennel still listened on the phone, Olivia right next to her.

"You're irritated," John noticed.

"Of, course I am," Sherlock retorted. "Why does she need to call in reinforcements?"

"Same reasons you do, I imagine," John replied, casually.

"I _am_ the reinforcement," Sherlock muttered.

"Thanks, Cal," Quennel grinned. "You're a doll. Kiss, kiss."

Sherlock gave a disgusted sound, rolling his eyes as Quennel turned to face him, hanging up the phone before lifting it to Olivia.

"Nikolai Petrov," Quennel announced then looked to Olivia. "This him?"

"Yes!" she squeaked, nodding vigorously.

"He's a mercenary, and a very successful one," Quennel explained. "Code name Cyclops, for various reasons. Mostly because, whenever he's hired for a hit, he shoots his target in the eye."

"How unimaginative," Sherlock blurted. "And stupid. He may not kill the target if he shoots them in the eye. I'm sure his kill rate is about fifty-fifty. In any case, we now know who kidnapped him, but the questions to be answered are who hired him and why? Obviously to get to this missile blueprint, but which government is he working for? Did your little _friend_ happen to mention that?"

"Actually, Petrov is a freelancer now," Quennel replied, drawing their attention to her as she smirked at him, triumphantly. "He hasn't taken a government assignment in years. His last known employer, according to Calvin, was a private party. But that wasn't recently."

"So why would he want my father?" Olivia wondered. "If it doesn't have anything to do with his government ties?"

"Oh, it does," Sherlock replied, shooting to his feet to pace with his fingers steepled under his nose. "They want your father _and_ those blueprints."

"But they don't _have_ the blueprints," Quennel realized. "_We_ have them. Petrov only took him, not the blueprints. We don't even know if he looked for them."

"He didn't," Sherlock replied. "He would've known Mr. Felton would've hid them. If anything he's being tortured now for their whereabouts."

"Sherlock—" John began to scold him, but he was cut off by a choked sob that came from Olivia.

"Come on, Olivia," Quennel offered, gesturing toward the kitchen. "Let's get started on that food."

Olivia nodded, her head bowed as she tried to hide her tears at the thought of her father being tortured, and Quennel and John went toward the kitchen as Sherlock still paced in thought. The three began opening the bags when Sherlock suddenly marched toward the door, grabbing his coat and scarf from behind it to put both on.

"Sherlock, where are you going?" John questioned, noticing him at the door.

"Crime scene," Sherlock replied. "Don't wait up."

"It's four A.M.!" Quennel reported as he marched out the door. She bit her lower lip in thought before abandoning the food and rushing toward her suitcase where she'd laid her jacket and grabbed it to race out the door.

"Quennel, what are you doing?!" John called as Olivia frowned around at them.

"Going after him," Quennel replied, casually. "Start without me."

She pulled her jacket on and hurried down the stairs just as Sherlock stepped out the door of the building.

"Sherlock!" she called as the door shut behind him, making her rush toward it and throw it open only to gasp and take a step back when he was standing an inch from the threshold. "I'm coming with you."

"I thought as much," he nodded, turning to head down the street. "Keep up."

She hurried after him, watching him pull his collar up them push his hands into the pockets as she matched his pace.

"So, why are we going back?" she wondered.

"To catch the kidnapper, obviously," he retorted. "Miss Felton's father will cave and give the whereabouts of the blueprints to Petrov, and Petrov will go after them straight away."

"Great, and why would you go alone?" she asked, sardonically.

"I wasn't going alone," he smirked. "I knew one of you sentimental fools would come after me. I am a _bit_ surprised it was you, though. I thought John would've been the first one after me."

"Sentimental fool, huh?" she retorted. "Is that all we are to you?"

"Who is?"

"Any of us."

"I suppose. You all care so much."

"Has anyone ever told you, you can be an ass?"

"Constantly," he sighed, then stopped and frowned down at Quennel when she stepped in front of him.

"You just told that girl her father was being tortured," she snapped. "When you get back from this, you go and apologize to her."

"I'm helping her find her father. That will be apology enough. Now, come on."

He grabbed her hand and dragged her down the street.

"What are you—?!"

"We don't have a moment to lose. He'll be there in a half hour and we've got to be there before he is."

Quennel let him pull her back to the taped off building, remembering the police had been there just as they had left. Sherlock ducked under the tape and Quennel followed suit, praying that no policemen had remained on the scene.

"So, he's coming back here for the blueprints," she began as he pulled her toward a set of stairs. "Don't you think he'd known the police have been snooping?"

"Of course he will. But, he'll take the chance that they haven't found them."

"Ok, so tell me."

"Tell you what?"

"The notes he made with the times on them. You obviously know what they are."

"Notes from Mr. Felton to my brother telling him at what time he'd made corrections. There was residue from the notes over the print where several post-its had been placed there then removed."

Sherlock suddenly stopped at the top of the stairs, his eyes darting around the room as Quennel stopped behind him.

"Sherlock—?"

She was cut off when he raised a hand to her, still staring into the room, and it was then that she heard papers shuffling, and muttering…in Russian. He slowly stepped toward the hunched over figure, whose back was facing the stairs, but Quennel shook her head, silently as she watched him. He slowly made his way closer to the figure and Quennel instantly glanced around, looking for something to fight with. She recalled her gun and reached into her coat pocket, knowing that was where she'd decided to keep it from now on.

Petrov suddenly whirled around, swinging a long piece of pipe at him which Sherlock instantly dodged by ducking then charging at Petrov, sending them toppling into the table. The table splintered under their weight and as Sherlock pushed himself up, Petrov moved to swing the pipe again, but the clicking of a hammer being pulled back on a revolver right next to his ear made him freeze.

"Please swing, I need to break in this gun," Quennel snapped, and Petrov's one eye glanced between her as she loomed over him and Sherlock, pinning him to the ground. "Drop the pipe."

His jaw clenched, tightly and he suddenly started seizing, foam coming from his mouth, making Quennel lowered her gun in shock.

"No!" Sherlock growled, attempting to open his mouth, but his jaw was clenched as he still seized, the cyanide killing him. When he fell limp on the ground, Sherlock growled again and shoved himself back to start searching his pockets.

"Why would he do that?" Quennel frowned in wide-eyed wonder, then stepped back as Sherlock still searched through his pockets. "He's…he's dead."

"If you need to throw up, don't do it all over the scene," he requested, and Quennel swallowed the bile threatening to make her upchuck.

"I've…never seen a…dead body," she shuddered.

"I've gathered," he retorted, pulling something from one of Petrov's pockets and standing.

"W-What's that?" Quennel breathed, trying to put the dead body out of her mind.

"Paper with two addresses on it," he replied. "This address…and 221 B."

"How would they know you have anything to do with it?" Quennel wondered, looking to Sherlock as he examined the paper.

"Perhaps he's been following her," he replied. "No doubt he's told his employer that she's acquired my assistance."

"What?" she breathed, staring at him with wide eyes.

"We need to get back," he explained, ignoring her tone. "I'll need to examine this paper a little closer to find out where it came from and where he's been."

"Sherlock," Quennel called, irritably as he made his way back to the stairs. "If he's told his employer she's at your house, he could send someone else to help him."

He stopped and looked to Quennel in realization before he turned back to the stairs and rushed down them, Quennel rushing after him. They ran down the street, Quennel ready to use her gun if needed and when they reached the door of 221, they found it forced open. Sherlock stepped through the door, and she could tell he was examining the area.

"Check on Mrs. Hudson," he ordered, and Quennel obeyed without argument, heading for the door at the bottom of the stairs.

She noticed the light on and softly knocked at the door. A moment later, Mrs. Hudson answered the door with a smile.

"Oh, hello, dear—!"

"Mrs. Hudson, I need you to stay here, please," Quennel cut in. "I'll be back in a few moments to explain."

With that she turned and made her way up the stairs, her gun at the ready. She faltered when she heard a thump then slowly continued toward the open door to find Sherlock knocked out on the floor.

"Sherlock!" she called, kneeling next to him to make sure he was just unconscious. "Sherlock!"

A hand was suddenly covering her mouth, making her eyes shoot wide and scream into the hand but she was lifted by the waist easily and toward the door. She thrashed and tried to escape, or scream or kick Sherlock awake, but he didn't move, and she guessed John and Olivia had gone out somewhere…at least she hoped.

She lifted her gun to try shooting her captor but another pair of hands grabbed her wrist and knocked the gun from her hand, making her scream again as a second intruder lifted her legs to help his comrade get her down the stairs. She still thrashed, trying to escape, but they dropped her, making her head bounce off one of the stairs, and her world went black.

* * *

><p><em>Back in the Flat...<em>

"Sherlock!" John called to him, shaking his friend as Olivia ran around the flat, looking for Quennel. "Sherlock! Wake up! Come on."

"I can't find Quennel," Olivia panted in panic.

"Go ask Mrs. Hudson," he ordered just as Sherlock groaned and stirred on the floor. He sat up, touching his head where he could feel a bump forming. He could tell right away he'd been hit with a crowbar.

"John?" he frowned in a raw voice.

"I'm here, Sherlock," he assured him. "Where's Quennel?"

"Mrs. Hudson," was all Sherlock could muster at the moment, trying to stand and John helped him. "She was…checking on Mrs. Hudson."

"Olivia's asking her now," John explained, sitting Sherlock in his chair.

"John!" Olivia called as she rushed through the door, Mrs. Hudson right behind her. "They've got Quennel!"

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **the cases are going pretty fast now, since I'm trying to do a bit more romance with it, but I won't disappoint for mystery and action, I promise. reviews?


	10. Torture

**A/N:** new chappie! enjoy!

* * *

><p><em><strong>Chapter 10: Torture<strong>_

Quennel groaned as she awoke, her eyes still shut. She was kneeling, her head hanging forward with her arms outstretched on either side of her, restrained by pinching, metal shackles. She was cold. Whoever had grabbed her had stripped off her coat, leaving her in her jeans, boots and a dark blue blouse.

A burst of cold water slapped her face, filling her nostrils and mouth when she gasped at the temperature, making her cough and sputter and gasp again.

"Wakey, wakey, Miss Felton," an accented male voice taunted as her eyes shot wide, darting around the room, unseeing. "You want to see papa, don't you?"

Quennel frowned in confusion as she coughed then recovered, looking up to find herself in a dark, dank room, a light shining in her face. A figure she couldn't quite see stood off to the side with a bucket in his hand, and she knew he'd thrown the water in her face. A scent suddenly filled her senses once her nose stopped burning, and she cringed at the scent of raw meat. She pulled at the chains to try pulling her hands free but it was no use, they only pinched around her wrists even tighter.

"No use struggling, little girl," the figure taunted, and she heard his footsteps heading toward her in the form of slapping sounds from his shoes hitting the puddled water around her. She cried out in pain when a hand grabbed onto her hair and yanked her head back so that she stared up into his face, and she kept her glare, even if her heart raced in panic. "You and your detective friend killed Nikolai. He was my brother. For this, you will die…and your father will watch, but not until he tells my where those blueprint are. So, you will cooperate for me, da?"

"Net," she ground out, and that earned a scowl from him, but she kept his gaze. Nikolai and Yuri Petrov were the best at what they did, but Nikolai was the brawn, and Yuri was the brains, operating behind the scenes. Thinking quickly, she feigned an American accent as she added, "You won't get anything out of me. I don't know anything about his projects."

"Oh, I won't need you to talk," Yuri smirked, evilly as he leaned closer to her face, twisting the locks of hair still within his grasp. "I only need you to scream."

Quennel's eyes shot wide in panic so strong that she couldn't hide her terror.

"Where's my daughter?!"

"Ah…here comes papa," Yuri grinned smugly as he shoved her head forward again, releasing her hair as she looked to the doorway she was facing. It burst open to reveal a middle-aged man being dragged by two other, burly men. The black-haired man being dragged was shoved to the ground and he turned sea-green eyes to Quennel in fright, only to frown in confusion. "Your daughter is here, Mr. Felton. No need to fret."

"But…" Mr. Felton breathed, still looking confused and Quennel's eyes met his. "But that's not—"

"Dad, I'm sorry," Quennel cut in, desperately, making his frown deepen slightly as he met her gaze. "They followed me to Baker Street. I was with Mr. Holmes when they grabbed me. I tried to escape…I'm so sorry, dad."

Her eyes urged him to play along, knowing the only way to keep Olivia safe was to make them believe they had her. It seemed to click and he sighed in relief made to seem like defeat.

"Let my daughter go," he pleaded. "She has nothing to do with this. She doesn't know anything!"

"No, but she will still be of use," Yuri smirked as he circled behind her. "You will tell me where you hid the blueprints for the missile, and I will release your daughter, and you once I have them. Is that clear?"

"Dad, don't do it!" Quennel shouted, earning a hard hit to the back of her head from Yuri, and she wasn't sure if he'd used his hand or a foreign object.

"Leave her alone!" Felton shouted, struggling against the two men holding him.

"Then tell me where the blueprints are," Yuri insisted, calmly, walking around the other side of a now dazed Quennel, her head hanging slightly forward as it spun.

"I told you! They're in the cylinder under my desk!" Felton replied, desperately.

"Which was a lie to stall us," Yuri reasoned. "We looked. They weren't there."

"Somebody must have taken them," Felton guessed. "Maybe the messenger that picks them up from me every night. I'm not always there when he comes to get them, please—!"

"Another lie," Yuri drawled, shaking his head and looking to one of his men. With a gesture toward Quennel he released Felton, leaving him with his comrade and marched toward her, unlocking her chains as Yuri stepped into a patch of shadows. The scrape of wood on stone echoed through the room as Yuri dragged a long bench into the light, and Quennel came out of her daze enough to start struggling. "Olivia, are you right or left handed?"

Quennel still struggled against the man dragging her toward the bench, but didn't answer as Felton began struggling against his captor as well.

"Let her go!" he shouted.

"Well, since you won't answer, we'll go with the odds," Yuri smirked, reaching into his belt and pulling out a huge, hunting knife. "Sleva." (Left)

Quennel panicked even further when the man holding her grabbed her left wrist and planted it onto the bench, palm down and she tried wriggling out of his grasp.

"_No_!" Felton screamed, not knowing what Yuri would do, but not liking it either way. This could have been his daughter. "Leave her alone! She doesn't know!"

"Oh, I am certain of that," Yuri smirked, aiming the knife at Felton. "Where…are…the blueprints?"

"I _told_ you! Please, stop!"

"Very well," Yuri sighed, flipping his knife to stab it lengthwise into Quennel's hand. She let out a blood-curdling scream of pain that bounced off the walls of the room, tears instantly springing to her eyes as her free hand tried to reach for the knife to remove it, but the man holding her in place grabbed her wrist to keep her from doing so.

"You son of a bitch!" Felton screamed, pushing on the man holding him captive but he was much smaller than the huge Russian.

Quennel gritted her teeth against the pain then screamed again when Yuri yanked the knife from her hand. She collapsed, limply against the man holding her, he being the only thing keeping her upright as she sobbed in pain, blood dripping from both sides of her hand and down her fingers. The blade had gone straight through, leaving a mark in the wood.

"Once more, Mr. Felton," Yuri called. "Where are the blueprints?"

Felton was shaking in terror seeing Quennel limp and seemingly lifeless if not for her sobbing.

"I already told you," he shuddered again. "If they're not there…I don't know where they would be. You know how particular I am—"

"Na spine," (On her back) Yuri ordered the man holding Quennel.

She groaned in protest, shaking her head as she was lifted and set on the bench, lying on her back. Yuri made his way into the shadows again as the man held a weakly struggling Quennel down on the bench by her shoulders, standing at her head, and when Yuri returned to the light he was carrying a bucket of water with a cloth in it, and a pitcher, his knife now sheathed. Quennel instantly realized what was happening.

"What are you doing?" Felton demanded, struggling against his captor. "Please, stop this! Let her go!"

Quennel tried to fight, kicking at Yuri, but he dodged her easily. She was off balance as only her head, spine and rear were supported by the bench, leaving her arms and legs to hang over the sides, her shoulders being held by one of Yuri's goons. He grabbed the cloth from the huge bucket, wrung it out into it then slapped it over Quennel's mouth and nose. Seeing it coming, she took in a gulp of air and held her breath before Yuri began pouring water from the pitcher over her face.

"Stop!" Felton screamed.

Quennel shut her eyes and tried struggling but it was no use. Water dripped through the cloth into her nose and she blew air through her nose to keep from drowning, water pouring over her eyes and making her shut them, tightly. She thought it would never end until finally the pitcher had run dry and the cloth was pulled from her face, making her cough and gasp for air.

"Stop," she rasped through a cough, but they showed no mercy as the cloth was slapped over her mouth and nose again. This time she hadn't had time to get in any air, and when the water began pouring over her face, she was sure she would drown.

Felton screamed at them to stop, but they continued until the bucket was empty and Quennel was nearly drowned, but still breathing. Yuri's man released her and she fell from the bench, onto her side, making her wheeze in pain, but she didn't move as the things were cleared to the side of the room again, and Quennel was left in a shivering, coughing puddle of cold water.

"You're a monster," Felton shuddered, tears in his eyes that this poor, innocent woman who bravely took the place of his daughter was suffering like this.

Yuri approached him with a smug smirk and nodded at the man gripping his arm to release him before reporting, "You have an hour to take care of your daughter. Then, I will return and either you will tell me where the blueprints are, or we do this all over again."

He nodded at his men to follow him and marched around Felton to head out the door. He jumped when the door slammed shut behind him, leaving him alone with this strange, nearly dead woman. Without a second thought he rushed toward her and knelt next to her, turning her over to examine her.

"No," she groaned, trying feebly to shove him away. "Leave me alone."

"Miss, it's me," he called, soothingly. "I won't hurt you. Richard Felton, Olivia's father. I need you to sit up."

Richard hauled her into a sitting position and she jerked as if ready to puke and when she did, water spilled out of her mouth, making her cough again as he tried stroking her dripping hair from her face.

"Don't fight it," he warned. "Just let your body get all the water out of your lungs."

She hurled again, but this time it was her stomach contents, and when she went to wipe her mouth with her left hand, Richard grabbed her wrist, not wanting her to infect the wound in her hand. He wiped away the saliva and puke from her mouth with his sleeve as she stared ahead, unseeing. She wasn't sure when, but she'd left her body in the middle of that water torture, and now she was struggling to get back. He said nothing else as he ripped off his other sleeve and wrapped it around her wound, trying to be gentle.

"What's your name?" he asked, hoping to pull her back to reality, seeing the glaze over her eyes. "Miss? You talked about Mr. Holmes. Did you mean Mycroft or the detective, his brother, Sherlock."

That snapped Quennel back and her eyes met his in a slight daze.

"Sherlock," she rasped, her voice raw from throwing up, screaming and choking. "Olivia…came to Sherlock for help. I was there. Mycroft sent her to him. My name is Quennel Yule. I'm a reporter."

She was rambling, but at least it was useful information instead of the thought she had on loop in her mind at that moment: Sherlock will save us.

"So, my daughter is safe?" Richard hoped. "She's with Sherlock Holmes?"

Quennel only nodded and he gave a sigh of relief before lifting a hand to stroke her hair, looking her in the eye.

"I'm so sorry you got mixed up in this, Miss Yule," he whispered and she only nodded, mutely. "By any chance, is Sherlock the one who has the blueprints?"

Quennel nodded again before adding, "He found them where you left them. He figured out what they are, then figured out you were working for Mycroft."

"These men are terrorists," Richard explained. "They want the prints to take over Russia."

"Yuri's brother, Nikolai, he went looking for the prints but Sherlock and I ran into him," Quennel explained, tears coming to her eyes but she managed to keep her voice steady. "Sherlock fought him and he bit into a cyanide capsule he had in his mouth, but Yuri thinks we killed him. It doesn't matter what you tell him, he's going to kill me to avenge his brother. We have to hold out until Sherlock finds out where we are."

"You think he'll rescue us?" he hoped.

"I know he will, Richard," she nodded. "He promised your daughter he would."

* * *

><p><em>221 B Baker St...<em>

"_Why didn't you call me sooner?!_" Lestrade nearly yelled over the speaker phone of John's phone as he and Sherlock stood in the kitchen, John having made the call as Sherlock bustled around the kitchen.

"I'm sorry, Greg," John replied, calmly, watching Sherlock move around the kitchen, lifting the paper he'd stolen from Nikolai to the light then sniffing it. "Sherlock thought he could deal with this on his own. Things just got a bit out of hand."

"_I'll say, you've got one of you kidnapped! That's well out of hand!_"

"Lestrade, if you insist on reporting the obvious, I'm going to have to have John hang up on you," Sherlock finally chimed in, not having said a word as he examined the piece of paper. "Bring a handful of your officers with you to the address I'm about to have John text to you. I'll meet you there. And an ambulance."

"_Ambulance?_" Lestrade echoed.

"Yes, an ambulance," Sherlock repeated, rolling his eyes as he used a scalpel on the table to cut a huge chunk of the paper off.

"Greg, I'll text you the address," John explained, then hung up. Time was of the essence, and he didn't have time for polite greetings or goodbyes. He shook his head as Sherlock began examining the piece of paper he'd cut off under the microscope. "I should've gone with you."

"Then Miss Felton would be in danger," Sherlock replied just as John looked up at him with a frown. "No doubt they think they have Olivia, and if Quennel is as clever as I think she is, she'll let them believe she is Olivia to keep the client safe."

"But she could be hurt," John insisted.

"But the client is not," Sherlock replied. "Either way, an innocent person would be hurt, which would you have it be, the girl or Quennel? Where is Miss Felton, by the way?"

"She's with Mrs. Hudson," John replied. "And I'd rather not have either _one_ be hurt, Sherlock."

"Well…in a perfect world," Sherlock muttered, distracted by what he was looking at in the scope. "Blood stains. Not human, I don't think. The paper smells of meat."

"What are you going on about?" John questioned, stepping toward Sherlock to watch him closer.

"This paper was on Nikolai Petrov when we found him," Sherlock explained, not looking away from the scope before pulling it out and feeling at it, examining it in the light. "It's been dampened, then dried again. It's been in a cold place, and once taken out, the condensation soaked the paper and then it dried."

"So somewhere with a refrigeration unit," John guessed, watching Sherlock drop the paper to the table before standing from his seat and sailing around him.

"Where meat is stored," Sherlock confirmed, marching toward the door to grab his coat and scarf, pulling them on as he continued toward the stairs, John right behind them. "I know where they are. Give me your phone. I'll text the address to Lestrade. Keep up John!"

"Should we bring Olivia along?" John wondered as they both rushed out the door and Sherlock hurried down the street, John pulling out his phone and handing it to him.

"There's no time!" Sherlock snapped at him, still moving as he took the phone. "We'll retrieve her after we've rescued her father and Quennel. Hurry up!"

* * *

><p><em>Meanwhile...<em>

Quennel struggled as best she could as the handcuffs bit into her raw wrists where she hung an inch off the ground from a meat hook in the center of the room. Her legs kicked wildly as Yuri stood just out of range, one of the other men manning the chain that operated the hook to make sure no one lowered it.

After the hour mark, Yuri had returned with his two goons and a chair to sit Richard down in it with one of the men keeping him seated as Quennel was tortured with the water once more. However, this time she had more time to catch her breath as Yuri questioned Richard over and over about where the prints were. Yuri had said she would need her energy, so this time the torture wasn't as merciless.

Now she thrashed on the hook, her entire weight making the handcuffs dig into her wrists, hurting her wounded hand even further and causing blood to run down her arm. She had no idea what they had planned next but by the way Yuri was fiddling with that knife of his, she knew it wasn't going to be any more pleasant than the last two actions she'd suffered through.

"Your daughter…is very beautiful, Mr. Felton," Yuri drawled, and Quennel _really_ didn't like where this was going.

Richard only glared back at him, feeling helpless and useless, unable to help this woman trying to help himself and his daughter. Yuri stepped toward Quennel with the knife aimed at her and she stopped thrashing, glaring at him as well, but she was panicking inside again. He held the blade up to her so she could see her reflection in the metal before pressing it sideways to her lower lip.

"Tell me where the blueprints are, and I will not rearrange her face…" Yuri trailed off as his knife slipped from her lower lip to slice off the top button of her blouse, "…and the rest of her."

"You really think he would let this go on if he knew where they were?" Quennel shuddered in her false American accent, catching his attention. "He'd do…anything to save me."

"I believe he would," Yuri murmured, slicing off the next button to open her blouse further, then whispered, "But I'm enjoying this too much to even care, now."

She gathered up what moisture she could in her mouth and spit it into his face, making him cringe before he glared at her and raised his knife in rage.

"_No!_"

"Police!"

All eyes shot to the door leading from the warehouse into the room, and Quennel took advantage of the distraction to kick Yuri in the gut, making him double over in pain with a grunt, his knife coming down and stabbing her in the leg. She cried out in pain as the knife stuck out from her thigh and there was more shouting, and a shot rang out. Quennel looked up to see a silver-haired man aiming a smoking gun in her direction, but when she looked to the ground, she saw Yuri lying face down on the damp floor…dead. She looked back up at him with wide eyes, her heart pounding in her chest as several other officers took down his goons and Sherlock and John hurried toward her.

"Lestrade," she murmured as the rattling of a chain being pulled at sounded and she was slowly lowered to the ground again.

She'd interviewed him many times at crime scenes. She knew he was a Detective Inspector, but what she couldn't fathom at the moment was why he was here. Her hands were taken off the hook and lowered in front of her and a pair of strong arms wrapped around her to gently lower her to the ground. She was sure she was dreaming all of this as Lestrade and John came into view.

"Quennel," John called. "Can you hear me? Focus on me."

Her eyes darted around for a moment before focusing on John, but he was blurry around the edges.

"I have to get this knife out of your leg—"

"Oh, for God's sake, John!" Sherlock snapped before grabbing the handle.

"Sherlock—!" Lestrade tried to stop him, but the consulting detective yanked the knife from her leg, making her scream, her back arching in terrible pain.

"You could've—!"

"I didn't," Sherlock interrupted John, yanking his scarf from around his neck and using it as a makeshift tourniquet, and knowing exactly what John was about to say about an artery he could've nicked. "Lestrade, go take care of Mr. Felton, I'll get her to the ambulance."

Without another word Sherlock lifted the now dazed Quennel into his arms and carried her toward the stairs, John right behind him. She watched her surroundings pass by her in a blur, not registering much, only that she was being carried to safety. Sherlock Holmes had saved her.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** I went to a bit of a dark place with this one. reviews?


	11. Flirting in Hospital

**A/N:** new chappie! enjoy!

* * *

><p><em><strong>Chapter 11: Flirting in Hospital<strong>_

Sherlock sat in a chair in the corner of Quennel's hospital room in St Bart's, watching her sleep and tapping a finger to his steepled hands in time with the heart monitor she was connected to. Once he'd gotten her to the ambulance and he insisted on John being the one to take care of her she had passed out. No doubt from the rush of adrenaline she'd had while being held captive…and from the looks of it, from being tortured as well.

He'd felt rage bubble in him at that thought when John climbed in and the ambulance door shut to whisk her away to St Bart's. He met John there later, after making sure Lestrade reunited Richard and Olivia at Baker Street. He couldn't believe his own speed at finding a cab to head for the hospital. He hadn't even let Richard or Olivia thank him, or received his payment. He was sure Mycroft would take care of that, since Felton was his man.

Now he watched nurses and doctors go in and out of the room, checking Quennel's vitals and IV, making notes then leaving with a polite smile and nod to acknowledge he was there. He never made any gestures in return, he only kept his eyes glued on Quennel.

While she slept he'd taken up the enraging task of deducing what had happened to her while she and Richard had been Yuri's captives. He'd investigated the room they'd been kept in once Yuri's goons had been taken away for questioning, and no doubt they would confirm his suspicions.

From the mark in the bench left at one end of the room he was sure it corresponded with the wound on Quennel's hand and the knife Yuri had stabbed into her leg before Lestrade shot him for it. The copious amount of water on the floor, along with the bucket, cloth and pitcher, and the fact that she was soaked to the bone told him she'd undergone a type of water torture known as Waterboarding. From the two top buttons of her blouse being cut off he deduced Yuri had far more in store for her had they not found him when they did.

His eyes darted to the door as someone walked in, then back to Quennel when he recognized John and Lestrade, both with cups of coffee, John holding two.

"Any change?" John asked, stepping toward Sherlock to hand him a coffee.

"None," Sherlock replied, simply as he took the cup from John.

"Good," John nodded, looking back to Quennel. "Means she's stable."

"I suspect the Russian goons confessed that Quennel was tortured to make Richard talk," Sherlock assumed at Lestrade who looked to Quennel as well before his gaze went to Sherlock as he sipped at his coffee.

"Yeah," Lestrade nodded. "They both said they were looking for the blueprints. Thought she was Olivia, his daughter. She was—"

"Stabbed in the hand and Waterboarded," Sherlock finished for him, taking a sip of his coffee, his blue eyes never leaving Quennel.

"Yeah," Lestrade nodded solemnly, knowing Sherlock would figure it out and John glanced between them in disbelief.

"Jesus," he breathed. "That could've been Olivia."

"But it wasn't," Sherlock growled, lowly, making the other two men look to him, but he met Lestrade's gaze. "The men are still in custody?"

"Yeah," Lestrade nodded. "They'll be deported and tried for crimes against their country. If they're lucky, they'll get the death sentence."

"They're lucky _you_ got to them first," Sherlock ground out over his coffee cup, making John and Lestrade glance between him and each other in disbelief at the implications Sherlock was unwittingly making about himself.

Their attention was turned to Quennel when she took in a deep breath as she awoke. Lestrade and John were about to step toward her when a blur of dark wool pushed passed them to get to her first, stepping up to her right as she stirred. She gave a frown as John and Lestrade stepped up to the bed as well, her eyes fluttering open to look around in wonder.

"You're safe, Quennel," Lestrade assured her, seeing the fear in her eyes. "You're at St Bart's. John and Sherlock are here, see?"

Quennel's eyes went from his smile, to John's then to Sherlock who only stood tall to her right, expressionless and silent.

"Richard?" she frowned in wonder, her voice raw as her gaze darted between them again.

"He's fine," John assured her. "He's with Olivia again."

"Good," Quennel sighed and seemed to go into a world of her own as she stared at a spot on her sheets.

John and Lestrade glanced at each other awkwardly before the Detective Inspector cleared his throat then spoke.

"I'll, uh…need a statement about what happened," Lestrade explained his presence. "But that can wait. I can send someone here for it when you're feeling better."

She stared on for a moment before snapping back to reality and looking to Lestrade with wide, glassy eyes.

"No," she breathed, shifting to try sitting herself up. "Let's get this over with."

"Quennel, don't move," John urged, setting his coffee down to reach for her arm as she cringed in pain when her left hand tried supporting her weight. "Lay back. You can operate the bed. Where's that controller?"

The top half of the bed suddenly began moving, sitting Quennel up slowly and when it stopped they all looked to Sherlock as he set the controller down next to Quennel's hand.

"Right," Lestrade sighed, pulling out his notepad and a pencil before glancing at the other men in the room. "Do you want them to stay?"

Quennel glanced between John and Sherlock in thought. John began making his way to the door without being asked, but Sherlock only remained where he was, glaring at Lestrade for even suggesting he leave.

"Sherlock?" John called, urging him to follow.

"I'll stay, thank you," Sherlock replied, turning to head back to his seat in the corner.

"Well, that's not your choice, is it?" Lestrade retorted, turning to Sherlock to watch him sit and steeple his fingers in front of his mouth.

"It's alright, detective," Quennel assured him, looking to John as he turned back to her and she nodded with a small smile. "I don't mind if they stay. They probably know everything already. I know Sherlock's figured it all out."

Lestrade glanced between them before turning back to Quennel and grabbing a chair to pull it up to her bedside.

"Right, then," he sighed, readying his pad and pencil. "Start from the moment you were kidnapped."

Quennel took a deep breath before she recounted everything she'd been through with amazing detail and accuracy. Sherlock observed her closely as she spoke to Lestrade, seeing her swallow hard just before she came to a part in her story that was obviously traumatic for her. She gave her story efficiently and managed not to sob, though silent tears streamed over her face and she sniffled a few times as she wiped her face. When she reached the end of her statement, Sherlock stood again and reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket to pull out a white handkerchief and hand it to her.

"Thank you," she whispered, taking it with a nod and dabbing her tears away as Sherlock remained by her side.

"Well, I've got everything I need," Lestrade reported, pocketing his pad and pencil as he stood. "If there's anything else you think I should know, John has my direct number. But I think this case is pretty much closed."

Quennel only nodded, wincing in pain when the wound in her hand flared up.

"Don't use your hand," Sherlock ordered, firmly, drawing her attention to him. "Your arm should be in a sling. It won't heal properly if you keep using it."

"Good thing I'm right handed," she muttered, lifting her hand to look at it, the gauze wrapped around it still white, but she knew the wound would bleed through eventually.

"Miss Yule?"

All eyes shot to the door to see Olivia and Richard Felton standing in the doorway, Richard holding a huge bouquet of flowers and Olivia carrying a plush bear in a t-shirt with the words 'You'll Be Fine' embroidered on it.

"The doctor said we could visit just for a moment," Richard explained. "Looks like you have a lot of visitors already. We'll come back later."

"I was just leaving," Lestrade assured them through a warm smile as he made his way to the door. He patted Richard on the shoulder, adding, "She asked about you two first thing."

Olivia grinned at the Detective before turning to hurry toward Quennel and she was careful when she hugged the woman before handing her the bear.

"How lovely," Quennel smiled, setting the bear in front of her then smiled up at Olivia. "Thank you. It's adorable."

"Dad told me what you did," Olivia reported, making Quennel's smile fall, slightly. "You are so brave. I don't think I'd have been able to do that."

"Good thing we didn't have to find out whether you could or not," Quennel smiled.

Her gaze went to Richard as he approached with his offering of flowers and he asked, "Where should I put these?"

"Oh…anywhere," Quennel smiled as Sherlock and John watched, quietly.

"I really can't thank you enough, Quennel," Richard insisted, setting the flowers down on the empty table next to her bed. "Flowers and a stuffed bear are nowhere near enough for protecting my daughter like you did."

"Stop, please," Quennel smiled, solemnly. "I'll not hear my nothings monstered."

"Coriolanus," Sherlock blurted, making all eyes turn to him for a moment before they turned back to Quennel, but she kept her eyes on him and smiled.

"Anyway, I'm just glad you're both safe and unharmed," she smiled then asked, "What will you do now?"

"Do to all of this, Mycroft has retired me to country life, away from the city," Richard explained, stepping next Olivia to set an arm around her shoulders. "I gave him his blueprints and my compensation is…excellent. He's buying the house and gave me enough money to live comfortably till I die."

"Glad to hear it," Quennel nodded.

"We wanted to see you before we left, and to thank you again," Olivia explained.

"Well, thank you for visiting," Quennel smiled. "You didn't have to."

"Oh, yes we did," Richard insisted. "You're one courageous person, Miss Yule. You have my deepest respect and admiration."

Quennel felt her throat go dry and swallowed hard but she smiled, graciously and nodded, saying nothing.

"Tired, Quennel?" John piped up, seeing how uncomfortable she was getting and she nodded, mutely again. "Right, we should all probably go."

"Thank you, everyone for checking up on me," Quennel said, trying not to be rude. "I really appreciate it. Richard, Olivia, I hope you enjoy your new home."

"Maybe you can come visit?" Olivia grinned.

"We'll see," Richard nodded with a smile, pulling his daughter toward the door. "Goodbye, and thank you again."

Quennel only nodded her goodbye as they left the room and John made for the door as well but Sherlock stepped back toward his chair to sit in his corner. John sighed and peeked into the corner at his friend.

"Sherlock," he called as Quennel frowned between them. "She needs to rest."

"I won't strain her," Sherlock assured him. "I'm quite comfortable here."

"I'm leaving too," John told him.

"Yes, I know," Sherlock replied, still unmoving.

John sighed before meeting Quennel's gaze, suggesting, "I can have security throw him out."

She couldn't help but giggle at that and the glare Sherlock sent his way before shaking her head.

"I'm sure he's just going to sit and brood. I can handle that."

John looked skeptical before nodding and turning to head out of the room, leaving Sherlock to stare at Quennel as she made herself comfortable by operating the controller to set the bed back again.

"How can you recognize a quote from Shakespeare but not know that the Earth goes round the sun?" she smirked.

"You're supposed to be sleeping," he retorted.

She was silent for a moment before she gave a small sigh, tears coming to her eyes as she murmured, "I don't think I can, Sherlock."

He sat forward in his chair, hearing her tone and slightly surprised by her use of his name.

"I'm afraid…if I fall asleep I'll wake up in that room again," she shuddered. "As if this was all just a dream, or…I'll just dream about it all again…and again."

Sherlock stood and made his way toward the bed, stepping to her right as she shuddered in silent sobs. He watched her for a moment then hesitantly reached out and slipped his fingers into the palm of her right hand. Her fingers curled around his as she still sobbed and he said nothing, knowing there was nothing he really could say to comfort her.

It wouldn't be alright. What had happened to her was traumatic and shouldn't happen to anyone, especially not an innocent that had only followed him into danger just because she felt he shouldn't go somewhere alone. He never blamed himself for much of anything he did…but seeing Quennel like this because she'd merely followed him made him feel guilty enough to do so now.

"Sherlock," she whispered, and his gaze fell on her as she looked up at him with teary eyes.

"Yes, Miss Yule?" he wondered, and her grip on his fingers tightened just a touch as she gave a sad smile.

"I'm glad you stayed."

* * *

><p><em>Several Hours Later...<em>

Quennel sighed as she awoke from a thankfully dreamless sleep, her eyes fluttering open to stare at the hospital ceiling. She frowned as she tried to remember where she was for a moment and once she recalled, she sighed again, but her frown returned when she felt something warm in her right hand. She looked to her hand first to find she was grasping a set of fingers, then trailed her gaze up the arm they were attached to, making her smile, softly.

Sherlock Holmes was sitting in a chair next to her bed, his fingers in her hand, his other hand supporting his face as he slept. She couldn't help but stare at him. He looked so peaceful, but she was sure his mind was still going. Always going, even as he slept.

Footsteps from the doorway to her room made her look up to see a handsome, tall man in a white doctor's coat, green eyes and short, slightly curly ginger hair.

"Good afternoon, Miss Yule," he smiled, stepping to her left with her information on a clipboard in his hands. "I'm Doctor Adams. How are you feeling?"

"As good as to be expected, I suppose," she replied, unable to help thinking that this doctor would've been better off as an actor or model with that face and smile.

"Well, after all our scans and tests, there's no lasting damage, and that wound on your hand will heal just fine, but you'll have a scar. You'll be able to use your hand, but to let it heal, you'll have to have it in a sling for some time, and you'll have to come in once a week for check-ups," he explained, making Quennel swallow hard before she nodded. Doctor Adams glanced to Sherlock, still asleep, and smirked, "That's a very good man you've got there. He wouldn't leave as soon as he came in. The nurses have been gawking since he came in."

"Oh, um…" she trailed off, looking to Sherlock and smirked at him as she noticed his face didn't look quite so peaceful now. She looked back to Doctor Adams and smiled, "He's not really _my_ man. So tell the nurses they can have at him."

"I can hear you," Sherlock blurted, unmoving, making Quennel smirk back at him as Doctor Adams frowned between them. His eyes opened and he gave Doctor Adams a quick look over before shutting them again. "And her leg?"

"Ah, yes," Adams nodded. "There was no lasting damage from that wound either, but, as with your hand, there will be a scar. Just change the bandage as needed. We'll bring you in when it's time to remove the stitches."

"Good, now go away," Sherlock blurted, making Quennel and Adams look to him with a frown each.

"I'm sorry, are _you_ the one in the hospital bed?" Quennel shot back, making Sherlock's eyes open again and he looked at her, lifting his head to set his chin in his hand. "Been kidnapped? Stabbed? Nearly dry drowned, recently?"

"Not recently and not in that order," Sherlock retorted, making Quennel struggle not to smile.

"Well, I'm glad to see that you _are_ feeling better," Doctor Adams smiled. "We'll have to keep you for a little more observation, just to make sure you're alright to go home. After that I would suggest you stay home from work for about a week or so."

Quennel only nodded in agreement and Sherlock watched her closely. He could tell there was more she was hiding, and he could guess what it was.

"Well, I'll let you rest," Doctor Adams nodded. "Unless you have any questions."

"None," she smiled. "Thanks."

He nodded his farewell before stepping out, leaving Sherlock to stare at her as she looked to the ceiling in thought.

"You don't have a job any longer, do you?" Sherlock guessed, and when her hand finally pulled away from his as she still stared at the ceiling, he had his answer.

"My boss wasn't too pleased I exposed Deirdra and Adam, so they fired me the day Olivia came to you for help," she explained. "They called me that morning. Not that I could go back to that anyway."

"Why not?" he frowned, watching as a tear slid down the side of her face and she closed her eyes, swallowing hard.

"I'm…broken, Sherlock," she whispered, her eyes opening again to stare at the ceiling. "I keep having flashbacks of being in that room. I've heard about this in soldiers. I've got PTSD. If I even try to sleep I know I'll have nightmares."

"You seemed to sleep well last night," he observed.

"Yeah, probably because you were holding my hand the entire time," she scoffed before looking to him with a small smile. "Thank you, by the way, for staying."

Sherlock only gave a shrug before reaching into his pocket for his phone and typing at it and Quennel rolled her eyes before looking back to the ceiling.

"I'll lose my flat if I don't get another job, soon," she reported. "I was living paycheck to paycheck as it was."

He remained mute as she despaired, silently for a moment longer before she finally decided to distract herself.

"I saw you look my doctor over," she reported as Sherlock still kept his gaze on his phone. "Either you really are gay or you deduced everything you could out of that one look over."

"The latter," he replied, distractedly.

"Well, then. Tell me, before I start flirting."

"He's married."

"He wasn't wearing a ring."

"That's because he's having an affair with one of the nurses and doesn't want her knowing he's married."

"Shut up!"

"One of the nurses that came in earlier was disheveled, and he had the same shade of lipstick that she wore smudged over his neck. He also has a black cat. Traces of cat fur on his collar and a scratch on his hand proved that. It's probably his wife's cat and it hates him or it scented the dog from his mistress's house where he spent the night last night."

"How can you possibly know they spent the night together?"

"They came in together."

"Could have been a coincidence."

"He's wearing the same clothes he wore last night. He was leaving as I came in. He's not your type anyway."

"What, an adulterer? I'll say he's not."

"No," he drawled, shoving his phone back into his pocket and looking up at her. "He's not me."

Quennel's frown went to a wide-eyed stare of disbelief as he only gave a quick, tight smile. Her hand went to her controller to lift the top half of the bed as she still stared at him with huge eyes.

"You arrogant sod!" she snapped, making him frown back at her. "You _really_ think I'd be attracted to you?! You're rude, you're inconsiderate, you don't give a toss about anything but how much bloody fun you're having during a case, and you're bloody reckless!"

"And you came after me to catch that Russian mercenary that could've killed you," Sherlock pointed out. "I'd say that was reckless."

"Reckless was going _alone_!"

"You've been flirting with me since we met."

"That was to keep you interested in my case!"

"And during Olivia's case?"

"I'm in media! I flirt _for a living_!"

"Wrong, you _used_ to flirt for a living. You don't need to anymore."

"You're impossible!"

"And yet you're attracted to me."

"Oh, _fine_!" she nearly screamed, making him jump only slightly in his chair as their eyes met, his wide with wonder, hers glaring in rage back at him. "Fine. I'm attracted to you. But you _weren't supposed to know_!"

Sherlock's lips twitched in a smug smirk for just a second before he stood and she frowned at him with a clenched jaw as he began pulling on his coat and scarf.

"I owe you proper dinner date," he said, wrapping his scarf around his neck and making her frown fall to a wide-eyed stare again and he made his way to the door. "If there's anywhere in particular you'd like to go, let me know. John will be in soon. I'll be back in an hour."

The door shut behind him and Quennel stared at it for a moment, asking herself, not for the first time since meeting Sherlock Holmes:

"Did he…just ask me out…again?"

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><p><strong>AN: **I hope Sherlock is still in character. reviews?


	12. Living Situation

**A/N:** new chappie! enjoy!

* * *

><p><em><strong>Chapter 12: Living Situation<strong>_

"John, I'm fine, honestly."

"Are _you_ the doctor here?"

"No, but I think I can sit in a chair without difficulty," Quennel smiled, attempting to sit in his usual armchair, her left arm in a sling, her hand and both wrists bandaged, a cane in her other hand. "Though I _do_ feel like an old woman."

"Glad my old cane came in handy," John smiled, helping Quennel settle in his chair as she glanced around.

"Where's Sherlock?" she wondered, trying to sound indifferent.

He hadn't come back to the hospital, and when Doctor Adams had given her the ok to leave, John had seen her to 221 B Baker Street. She couldn't help but wonder why he'd brought her here, and where he was.

"He's on a case," John answered, heading for the kitchen. "Then he said something about an errand."

She nodded, mutely as he bustled around the kitchen, making tea from what she could hear.

"Care for a cuppa?" he called, making her smirk at herself.

_Sherlock would be proud_, she thought, but, instead, called back, "Yes, please. And some biscuits?"

"We have more bagged thumbs than biscuits," John called back. "Sorry."

She could help but laugh before jumping when she heard the slam of the front door at the bottom of the stairs. There was a murmur of voices as footsteps made their way up the stairs.

"No, Mycroft!" Sherlock boomed as he marched through the flat door. "Out of the question!"

"You say that as if you have a choice," Mycroft smirked, smugly, swinging his umbrella in his hand as he strolled in, Sherlock yanking off his coat and scarf to hang them up. "I need time to make arrangements, little brother. I cannot simply pull a position in my department out of thin air. And I'll need time for the other item you've charged me with procuring. It's the only solution."

"What's the only solution?" Quennel asked, knowing they hadn't noticed her sitting there or possibly assumed she was John.

Sherlock whirled around with wide eyes as Mycroft only looked to her as John came out of the kitchen with a cup of tea for her.

"How long have you been here?!" Sherlock demanded, making her frown as she took the cup from John and he frowned at his friend as well.

"I just sat down," she replied, having a sip of tea. "And I think the proper word you're looking for is 'Hello.' Oh, John, this tea is lovely. Not as good as Mrs. Hudson's, but it'll do."

"Well, thanks," John scoffed as she gave him a wink before they both looked to Sherlock and Mycroft again. "So, what were you two talking about?"

"A certain person's living situation," Mycroft grinned, smugly.

"Mycroft," Sherlock warned as John and Quennel frowned between them.

"Uh, who's living situation?" John pressed, folding his arms in front of him.

"No one's," Sherlock replied before Mycroft could reply then turned to his brother with a glare. "Text me when you've got it sorted, and I'll…find a place for the person in question."

"I would take up my suggestion, if I were you, Sherlock," Mycroft replied, matching his brother's quiet tone.

"What are two conspiring over there?" Quennel smiled, still sipping at her tea, and Mycroft turned to her with a small smile.

"Miss Yule," he nodded. "Might I suggest you rest up to heal properly?"

"I think you owe her a little more than a friendly suggestion," John scoffed. "She was injured saving _your_ man's daughter. She deserves compensation!"

"John, stop it," Quennel cut in. "I'm not his problem. It was my decision to follow Sherlock, and pretend I was Olivia when I was captured. He owes me nothing."

"Actually, Miss Yule—"

"Mycroft, leave," Sherlock interrupted, sharply, making Quennel smile as Mycroft's mouth snapped shut and he nodded, mutely before heading toward the door again.

"Miss Yule, John," he said as his goodbye and strolled out the door. "Sherlock, you _will_ investigate that other matter for me, won't you?"

"No," Sherlock replied, heading for his laptop at the lounge table.

"Which means yes," John whispered to Quennel who gave a small giggle. "What are you doing, Sherlock?"

He didn't reply as he kept his gaze on the screen, making John look to Quennel and shrug.

"I'm going to get groceries," John announced, stepping toward the door and checking his pocket to be sure he had his key. "You'll be able to look after Quennel, right Sherlock? Try not to ignore her like you do me. She's injured."

"I can take care of myself," she called as he stepped out the door. Once it shut behind John she looked to Sherlock as he still typed at his laptop. She was silent for a moment as she sipped at her tea then called, "I picked a restaurant."

"Did you?" Sherlock muttered, not looking away from the screen. "And?"

"Nope," she replied, shaking her head as she set the teacup in the saucer and place it on the table next to the chair. "I want you to deduce which restaurant I chose."

"I would only be guessing without any previous observation to go on," he replied.

"You knew I would buy a vanilla bean scone at the bakery based on how I take my coffee and tea," she recalled, sardonically. "I'm sure you could deduce which restaurant I would choose for dinner based on, say…my choice in take away?"

"Or, perhaps, on how much you enjoyed the dinner Mycroft invited us to," he guessed. "By that observation, I'd say you chose a French restaurant, likely expensive, indicating you expect _me_ to pay, also meant as a jab at me since I tricked you into the first dinner."

"Very good, Mr. Holmes," she nodded. "As always. What were you talking about with Mycroft? Or should I ask, _who_ were you talking about?"

Sherlock was silent, but his hands faltered once over the keyboard, but continued typing before using his foot to drag the chair of the table closer and sat, never looking away from the screen.

"Ok, new question, what are you working on?" she asked.

"New case," he replied, distractedly.

"Care to share?" she wondered.

"Nearly done. Do you have your phone?"

"Yeah…"

"Can I borrow it?"

"Sure."

Quennel tried reaching into her pocket, groaning in pain when she shifted, and finally making Sherlock turn to her in wide-eyed wonder.

"For goodness sake," he muttered, standing and marching toward her to kneel in front of her, making her stare at him in shock as he reached for her pocket. "I thought you had it out."

She stared wide eyes at him, her heart thumping in her ears as he slid his fingers into her pocket and pulled her mobile from it. He didn't move from his spot as he began using the phone, obviously texting, but she wasn't sure who. She watched him for a moment as he still didn't move from kneeling in front of her, recalling that he'd carried her at one point but she'd been too weak and dazed to enjoy being that close. Now he was just a few inches away and she thought it should be a sin for someone to be as handsome as he was…and yet uninterested in anything else but his work.

"Thank you," he replied when he was finished, setting her phone on her left, uninjured leg, his fingers brushing her leg as he stood and she watched him, her mouth going dry. "I'll make reservations for tomorrow night then, shall I? If you feel up for it, that is."

"I…" she trailed off for a moment before he turned back toward his laptop to sit in the chair and type again. She cleared her throat before trying again, "I think I'll be alright. But…do you know where to make reservations?"

"Of course," he retorted, not looking away from the screen. "Didn't I prove that?"

"Yes, but—"

"Do you want more tea?" he cut in, making her frown before looking to her empty teacup.

"Um…no," she replied, looking back at him as he finished up on the laptop, closing it, then stepping toward Quennel's suitcase by the door. "What are you doing?"

He said nothing as he grabbed her bag and dragged it toward his bedroom, making her sit up a little straighter to try seeing him.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?!" she called, but there was no reply as she stared at him when he returned and plopped himself into his chair across from Quennel. "Why'd you take my case back there?"

Sherlock shifted in his seat, one hand unbuttoning his suit jacket to reveal more of his light blue shirt, his other hand supporting his head as he still stared at her, silently. Quennel frowned at him in wonder, knowing he was scrutinizing her with his stare but she didn't have to fight fidgeting. She never did under his gaze.

"Well?" she prompted as he still said nothing. "Why am I even here? I have a flat, but John said you told him to bring me here. Why?"

"You said you would lose your flat," he recalled.

"Yes, if I didn't find a job soon."

"You've lost it."

Quennel stared at him in wide eyes disbelief as he shifted again.

"Your landlord is an exceptionally irritating old man," Sherlock went on. "I went to your flat to ask him when your rent was due. I had a mind to pay it so that you would have time to find employment, but he refused me. Apparently _today_ was payday for him, but he would only receive payment from _you_. He was most annoyed when I broke into your flat to retrieve your things, which are now in my room. You can stay here until Mycroft finds a flat and a place of employment for you."

Quennel continued to stare at him, her mind reeling and trying to make sense of the words he was so recklessly and carelessly saying. So many questions ran through her mind before she finally grasped one and took the opportunity to ask it before it disappeared.

"Why would you pay my rent?"

Sherlock frowned in confusion at her, but she only stared at him expectantly.

"What?"

"Why would you pay my rent?"

"You told me you'd lost your job. I doubt you'd have been able to pay it in time."

"But why was it _your_ responsibility to pay it?"

"_I_ was the only one who knew about it until I told Mycroft this morning."

"And another thing: Why is it up to your _brother_ to find a job and flat for me?"

"Because I asked him."

"More like ordered, I'll bet," Quennel smirked, then narrowed her gaze at him. "You're taking me on as a responsibility, aren't you?"

He finally stood, grabbing his violin from beside his chair to head for the window, tucking the instrument under his chin and lifting his bow.

"Well, Mr. Holmes. Dinner in the restaurant of my choice, and going through all of this trouble to give me a good living situation? Be careful, Sherlock…people may start to think I'm mistress to your work."

Sherlock still said nothing as he began playing his violin, facing her as she smirked and sat back to enjoy the serenade. She loved hearing him play. Over the time she'd spent at 221 B, she'd heard him play at any hour, day or night, to pass the time during her case with Deirdra. She let her head lean back on the head of the chair, enjoying the tune she couldn't recognize, but loved anyway. When he suddenly stopped, mid-song, she frowned and lifted her head to watch him write on the music stand next to him. She frowned in wonder before realization hit her.

"You compose?" she smiled.

"Yes," he drawled, standing again to look over his work.

"Sorry," she smirked. "I guess that was a bit obvious, wasn't it?"

"A bit," he replied, turning back to playing the same tune again.

Quennel waited until he was writing again before smiling, "It sounds lovely."

He looked to her for a moment before looking back at the page, still writing as he muttered, "Thank you."

Quennel smiled as he went back to playing and sighed, tiredly, closing her eyes as she let her head fall back again.

Sherlock continued composing, partly thankful that she had stopped talking when he wrote. He could remember the notes easily, without distraction, but he wanted to keep his focus on composing for the time being. He didn't notice John enter and thank him for the help he didn't offer with the bags he dragged in with him. He didn't even notice that Quennel hadn't moved for the past hour he'd been composing.

"Sherlock," John called, stepping into the lounge as the detective stopped playing once more to write out the last line of the composition. "You didn't even notice, did you?"

"Notice what?" Sherlock wondered, still writing.

"Quennel's fallen asleep," John reported. "And you were too busy composing. What if she'd needed something and you paid her no attention?"

"I heard her when she spoke, John," he sighed, quickly scribbling a title to the top of the composition before setting his instrument down and stepping toward Quennel as John made his way back to the kitchen to put the groceries away. "She hasn't spoken for an hour so I didn't bother myself with what she could be doing."

John frowned as he looked into the lounge to see Sherlock take Quennel's phone from its position on her leg and tuck it into his pocket for safe keeping before bending toward her and lifting her, effortlessly from the chair. John stared on as Sherlock carried Quennel down the hall toward his bedroom where he laid her down in the center of the mattress, pulling the covers over her and being careful of her injuries. He pulled her phone from his pocket to set it on the stand next to his bed before heading for the door, quietly shutting it behind him.

"Well…this is interesting," John smirked, standing next to the music stand where Sherlock had left his new composition as his friend made his way back into the lounge. John kept his smug smirk as he held the paper up when Sherlock marched toward him. "The Ballad of Miss Yule. How sweet, Sherlock."

Sherlock snatched the paper from him and gathered the rest of them from the stand to put them away, muttering, "Weren't you fixing lunch for us?"

"It's alright," John smirked, watching his friend hurriedly shove the papers into the desk near the table. "She's lovely. And I've seen the way you look at her. The way she looks at you, too. You could do worse."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Sherlock retorted, indignantly, marching toward the door to grab his coat and scarf.

"Yes, you do," John drawled, still smirking, smugly. "Where you off to now?"

"St. Bart's," Sherlock replied, wrapping his scarf around his neck. "Molly has a body for me."

"Another case?" John wondered.

"An experiment," Sherlock replied, pulling his collar up as he stepped out the door. "I need his stomach."

* * *

><p><em>That Evening...<em>

Quennel inhaled as she awoke and stretched with a smile before realizing she was lying in a bed and she was sure she had been in a chair in the lounge when she fell asleep. She frowned in wonder as she shoved herself up with her right, uninjured hand to look around the darkened bedroom, knowing it was Sherlock's room. She couldn't help but wonder who put her in the bed, but smirked when she realized it couldn't have been anyone else but Sherlock, then pouted when she realized she wasn't awake to enjoy being held in his arms…again.

She suddenly caught the scent of cooking and straightened when her stomach growled, suddenly recalling she hadn't had anything but a cup of tea all day. She pushed herself off the bed and made her way to the door to head toward the kitchen with a huge smile.

"What's on the menu?" she grinned as she turned into the kitchen and her eyes widened as she caught Sherlock standing at the stove. "You cook, as well? What a pleasant surprise."

Sherlock only gave a hum that he'd heard her as she approached and looked at the pan with a slice of meat sizzling in it before asking, "Did you enjoy your nap?"

"Thoroughly," she smiled, watching the pan. "What's for dinner?"

"Ask John," he blurted, still not looking at her as she frowned up at him.

"Aren't you cooking?" she wondered. "What's that? A meal for one?"

"It's not a meal. It's an experiment."

Quennel's frown deepened as she looked to the table to see a container she'd seen before in her experience as a reporter, making her eyes widen in disbelief as she slowly turned back to stare at the pan.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, Miss Yule?"

"What…are you cooking?"

"I told you, it's an experiment. I'm heating this man's stomach—"

"Stomach?"

"Yes, stomach. As I was saying—"

"No," Quennel cut in, finally making him look away from the cooking piece of stomach to frown at her. She shook her head, raising her right hand in surrender and waving it as she backed away. "Don't…Don't say another word. I don't wanna know why, just…do your thing. Can I use your laptop?"

She stepped toward the lounge to head for his laptop sitting on the table.

"What for?" he questioned, unmoving as he stared at his experiment.

"Have to check my email," she replied, sitting at the laptop and running her finger over the mouse to take it out of sleep mode. She couldn't help but smile when the site for the restaurant she'd wanted to go to for dinner came up. He'd made reservations. "Promise I won't look at anything I'm not supposed to…or check your history."

"Why would I care if you check my history?" he wondered.

"Give a man a computer and the first thing he searches for is naked women," she smirked, typing with her good hand.

"I'm not John," he retorted, making her laugh.

"Where is the good doctor, by the way?" she wondered.

"He went out for take away," he replied. "Apparently he wasn't too keen on eating anything from the pan I conducted my experiment in."

"Well, I can't really blame him," she muttered, frowning at the screen at a piece of junk mail before deleting it. "So…what time is dinner tomorrow?"

"Our reservations are at seven," he replied, without missing a beat. "Not too early, I hope."

"Seven is perfect," she replied, frowning at another email in wonder when she'd opened it. "Uh…Sherlock?"

"Yes, Miss Yule?"

"How does your brother have my email address?"

"He works for the government, Miss Yule. Finding an email address is child's play. What does the email say?"

"It says he's coming to see me tomorrow morning around ten to discuss a business proposal." She let her head fall back to look at him in the kitchen…upside down. He looked to her and frowned at seeing her head hanging backward, staring at him. "Are you sure you want me working for your brother? I'm assuming that's what this appointment is going to be about."

"Why would I mind you working for Mycroft?" he frowned, shutting the stove off and pulling the pan away from it to examine it.

Quennel gave a slight sneer of disgust, recalling what was in the pan as she sat up again, muttering, "Never mind."

Sherlock glanced at her as she began typing at the laptop and silence reigned the space for a few moments before Quennel spoke again.

"What should I wear to dinner tomorrow night?"

Sherlock said nothing for a moment as she sifted through the rest of her emails. She was worried he hadn't heard her until he answered.

"Whatever you like, I suppose," he finally answered. "The black dress you wore the other night should suffice."

Quennel couldn't help but smirk, knowing that was his way of saying he _liked_ that dress.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** I couldn't resist some fluff! reviews?


	13. Change in Career

**A/N: **new chappie! enjoy!

* * *

><p><em><strong>Chapter 13: Change in Career<strong>_

Quennel sat in Sherlock's chair, her left arm in a sling, the other sitting on the armrest, twirling John's old cane, wanting desperately to cross her legs to give a semblance of professionalism as Mycroft sat in John's chair across from her, mirroring her pose. They'd been sitting there for a whole half hour after he saw himself in. Sherlock had disappeared to the morgue before Quennel awoke that morning, saying something about a case, or so John informed her as he chose to stay at the flat to help Quennel where he could, or where she let him. Now she was staring at Mycroft, as John bustled in the kitchen, making tea.

"So…your email said something about a proposal," she began, realizing she had to be the one to start the conversation. "I know it was Sherlock's idea. He admitted it yesterday. You don't have to give me a job. Once I'm fully healed I'll be able to look for a job on my own. I'm _already_ looking."

"I've done some digging on you, Miss Yule," Mycroft replied, making Quennel stare at him with wide eyes as John emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray with three teacups of tea on it, sugar and cream as well.

"We all went through it," John assured Quennel, seeing the look on her face as he lowered the tray enough for Mycroft to take a cup, declining sugar and cream. He set the tray on the table and sat in the chair nearest to Quennel, handing her a cup of tea and she asked for the sugar. "You can't _not_ know the Holmes brothers without getting a full background check."

"In any case," Mycroft cut in as Quennel smirked at John, "Your university courses consisted of forensic science, a few writing classes, but this course in forensic science…you scored marks far higher than your classmates. I'd like to exploit that."

"You never said you majored in forensic science," John recalled, sipping at his tea as Quennel fidgeted, uncomfortably. "Sherlock certainly would've exploited that if he knew about it."

"My major wasn't _in_ forensic science," she corrected, nearly glaring at Mycroft. "My major was in journalism. It's how I got into the BBC as a reporter. How I started my career."

"Why didn't you try a career in forensics?" John wondered.

"Because it wasn't going to take me anywhere," she shrugged.

"Well, might I suggest a career change, Miss Yule?" Mycroft smiled, tightly as he set his cup down on the tea table next to him then leaned down to reach into the briefcase next to him and pull out a file to hand it to her. "Have a look at this file. It has all the particulars on the job and the benefits of being employed. Also, I found a flat for you close by. The particulars for that are in the file as well."

John reached out to take the file for Quennel then handed it to her so she could set it in her lap but she didn't look through it.

"Right, well, I think we're done here, then," Quennel smiled tightly back at Mycroft, making John frown at her in wonder. "I don't think I'll be accepting this offer, but I'll have a look at everything and give you call. You see, Mr. Holmes, I make my own way in this world. That's the only way I can live with myself anymore. It's the only way I sleep at night. I'll be sure to thank Mr. Holmes the younger for letting me stay here, and for making you go through all this trouble."

Mycroft gave a small scoff as John frowned in utter confusion between the two.

"You misunderstand the generosity, Miss Yule," Mycroft said, standing and buttoning his jacket then leaned down to lift his briefcase and stroll toward the door. "When I say I want to exploit your talents, I'm not being polite about it. You will be paid, handsomely, but in return, _I_ will use your mind, time and energy until you are exhausted beyond comprehension."

"Yup, that's what the Holmes brothers do," John nodded, and Quennel couldn't help but laugh as Mycroft rolled his eyes when he stopped at the door.

"Well, when you put it that way, how could I refuse?" she smirked, then sighed, "Mr. Holmes, since meeting your brother, I've lost a best friend, my job, my flat, been kidnapped, stabbed in the hand and the leg, and tortured. Now, I know you work for the government, so there's a_ bit_ of a possibility that accepting a job from _you_ will be far more dangerous than a day with Sherlock Holmes."

"I'd say it's about the same," John chimed in.

"I'll be waiting on your call, Miss Yule," Mycroft nodded.

"Don't hold your breath," Quennel muttered as Mycroft stepped out the door, shutting it behind him.

"So, what are you going to do?" John asked her, standing to head for his chair and sat in it with his tea as Quennel looked to the file in her lap. "If you don't take this offer what will you do?"

She sat silent for a moment, staring at the cover of the folder in thought before looking up at him.

"John, would you mind getting me to the morgue?" she asked, making him frown in wonder. "Mycroft might be right about a career change. And I'd love to meet this Molly Hooper I heard Sherlock mention when we met."

* * *

><p><em>St. Bart's...<em>

"You're not taking this one, Sherlock," Molly shook her head as she stepped around the body on the slab. "John told me what you did with the last one. That's not what they mean by organ donor."

"I needed it to be human for a case," Sherlock excused, remaining on the other side of the body. "In any case, this one is evidence. Even if I wanted to I couldn't take it. "What was the cause of death?"

"He was shot," Molly reported, handing him a large faceshield as she already wore one, making him frown at her in wonder. "You'll want to wear this."

He narrowed his eyes at her and pulled the thing onto his head as she lifted a scalpel and approached the head of the corpse.

"I see no bullet wounds," Sherlock noticed, examining the body from afar as she worked on cutting away the skin at the forehead.

"It's below the waist," she replied, making him frown at her before looking back to the body. "And behind."

Sherlock looked to her as his frown deepened, and with a pair of latex gloves already on his hands, he stepped toward the waist to move it as little as possible so as not to disturb Molly's work. There, on the right buttock, was an entrance wound.

"Well, this is…new," he admitted, but he was delighted he finally had a bit of a challenge on his hands as he examined the wound as best he could. He would have to examine it thoroughly when Molly was finished. "What is it you're doing?"

"The bullet ended up in the brain," she explained, lifting a handheld device with a round blade on the top. "I'm extracting it."

The tool started and Sherlock suddenly realized why she'd given him the mask when blood splattered over her faceshield as she lowered the tool to the man's skull to cut the top off.

"And Lestrade said he'd been found in his car in front of his house, yes?" Sherlock recalled, stepping toward an empty table with the police report and beginnings of the case file sitting on it. He glanced over the profile of the victim, finding it useless. His job wouldn't have put him in danger, his record was squeaky clean…not even a traffic violation, and suddenly he ends up dead in his car, in his driveway, with a bullet hole in his rear, where the bullet somehow made its way all the way up his spine and to his brain. "This _is_ an interesting one, isn't it?"

The door to the morgue opening drew his attention to it and he frowned in absolute confusion when he saw John helping Quennel hobble through it.

"John, please stop fussing," Quennel smiled, warmly before looking up to meet Sherlock's confused frown as he approached.

"What are you doing here?" he questioned. "I thought you were staying at 221B."

"Quennel wanted to come down," John explained.

"What is on your head?" Quennel giggled, making him glare down at her.

"Don't be so obtuse, Miss Yule," Sherlock retorted, glaring down at her. "You know perfectly well what this is and why I would wear it in the morgue during an autopsy, which is going on right now."

"Really? Let me see!" Quennel grinned, reaching up and yanking the faceshield from Sherlock's head to plant it onto hers and hobble toward Molly as she worked.

"Quennel! Wait!" John called, trying to head after her, but Sherlock placed a hand on his shoulder to stop him.

"A moment, John," Sherlock murmured. "I want to see what it is she's doing."

Quennel sailed up next to Molly, making her jump only slightly and stare wide, brown eyes at the former reporter.

"You must be Molly," Quennel smiled. "I'm Quennel. Friend of Sherlock and John's. What is it you're doing?"

"Um…" Molly hummed, glancing toward the two men then back at Quennel. "I'm…not sure I can discuss a case—"

"It's alright, Molly," Sherlock reported, drawing their attention to him as he nodded, "She's been working cases with us."

Molly frowned before looking to Quennel and finally replying, "Um…I'm recovering the bullet that killed him."

"Where did it enter?" Quennel asked, making Molly glance at her warily but she nodded down the body.

"Right buttock," she replied, making Quennel frown in confusion before she made her way to the place Molly had directed her, pulling a latex glove from the box nearby and slipping it on to touch the body. She scoffed, "Well, I'll be damned. That's a neat trick. Looks like there was something between the gun and skin though, judging by the cuts around it. Metal?"

"He was found in his car," Molly explained, setting the tool she'd been using down and popping the skullcap off, exposing the brain.

"So the suspect must've been under the car and shot him," Quennel guessed, standing tall and hobbling toward Molly again. "Some marksman, given the precision it would take to execute someone like that. Not to mention the hardware. You'd need a powerful weapon to do that."

"Sorry…_who_ are you?" Molly frowned.

"I told you," Quennel recalled. "I'm a friend of theirs. But I also got high marks in forensic science at university. I'm here to help."

"I doubt that."

The group looked to the door to see Lestrade strolling in with a tall, slim woman with brown curly hair and dark eyes.

"Detective Inspector, it's not what you think," Quennel assured him.

"The hell it isn't," Lestrade growled, stopping next to Sherlock and John to glare at the detective, his hands pulling his jacket back to set them on his hips in irritation. "You let a reporter come in here and look over the body? I knew you could be a right git at times, but _this_ is unacceptable!"

"A reporter?!" Molly chirped, staring at Quennel with wide eyes, who only rolled her own.

"I told you the freak would muck it up," the woman sighed in exasperation.

"Donovan, get her out of here," Lestrade ordered, gesturing to Quennel and the other woman marched past him to do as she was told.

"Don't you touch her, Donovan," Sherlock snapped, making her stop and turn to him with an incredulous stare that he would give her orders.

"Greg, Sally, she's not a reporter anymore," John explained, seeing Sherlock's temper starting to flare. "She lost her job after we solved her case. She wanted to be brought here when she _should_ be resting."

"Oh, John, you know I can't sit still," Quennel smirked. "I'm here to show off my skills in forensic science I acquired at university and ask if I can have a job here."

"Why?" Sherlock frowned, drawing everyone's attention to him. "Mycroft had a job offer for you. Didn't he talk to you this morning?"

"She refused, Sherlock," John muttered, making the consulting detective shoot his gaze to him before looking at Quennel incredulously as she only sighed.

"Refused?!" he spat. "Do you know what I had to do to convince him to help?!"

"Dress in drag?" Quennel shot back, making him glare at her as Lestrade chuckled. "Roll over like a dog? Dance a jig? Mr. Holmes, I didn't _ask_ for your help, though it was appreciated, but I'll tell you the same thing I told your brother, I make my own way in this world."

"Can you _not_ have a domestic in the autopsy room when the _professionals_ should be working?" Donovan snapped, glancing between Quennel and Sherlock.

"Sally, all due respect, shut it," Quennel shot back, making Molly giggle as Donovan stared back at her in disbelief. "I've been waiting to say that since I interviewed you on a crime scene one time. Maybe this career change is just what I needed. Molly, you need an assistant?"

Molly glanced around at everyone before giving a small smile and nodded, both pulling off their faceshields since she was finished with the messy part of the extraction.

"If Sherlock approves of you, you _must_ be clever," Molly smiled.

"Shake hands later," Quennel smirked. "I'll bring in my qualifications."

"You should heal up before you come to work," Molly suggested, gesturing to the cane she was leaning on and the sling on her arm.

"And the flat," Sherlock snapped, crossing his arms as the girls looked to him. "Did you refuse the flat he found for you as well?"

"I don't recall saying no to the flat," Quennel smirked. "I'll meet your generosity halfway."

"Hang on," Lestrade frowned, drawing everyone's attention as he looked to Sherlock. "You had your brother find a job _and_ a flat for her? Why?"

"I lost my own job and flat," Quennel explained, as Molly turned back to her work of pulling the brain from the skull to pull out the bullet.

"Yeah, got that, but…_why_?" Lestrade asked again, glancing between Sherlock and Quennel. "And if you've lost your flat…where are you staying?"

Quennel smirked up at Sherlock, making Lestrade look to him in realization as Sherlock glared back at Quennel.

"Honestly?!" Lestrade grinned. "She's staying with you and John?! Where's she's sleeping?!"

"Sherlock offered up his bed," Quennel smirked, still, making Lestrade's jaw drop as Donovan stared at Sherlock as well, John lowered a hand to his forehead and Molly's hands faltered in her work but she kept her gaze focused on the corpse.

"You old dog!" Lestrade grinned, slapping Sherlock's back and making him huff, uncomfortably. "I didn't know you had it in you!"

"John," Sherlock called, whirling around as he yanked the latex gloves off and tossed them onto the table he passed, marching toward the door. "Miss Yule, you can find your way back, can you not?"

"Oi! Don't be that way, Sherlock!" Quennel called, hurriedly yanking the glove off her hand and tossing it in the bin and hobbling after Sherlock, John waiting for her.

"I'll be having a look at the car he was in," Sherlock announced.

"At least tell me what you've got so far!" Lestrade called after him.

"A victim shot in the arse," Sherlock called back, making Quennel burst into laughter as John shook his head, helping her get out the door and Lestrade deflated before turning to Molly. "I'll keep you informed."

"I thought you needed the bullet!" Quennel called to him as the door shut behind herself and John and Sherlock made his way to the lift, John running ahead to hold the doors open, knowing Sherlock wouldn't let Quennel catch up in time. Once the three of them were in the lift and the doors shut, starting to lower them to the lobby, Sherlock slamming his finger into the emergency stop button, bringing the lift to a halt as he turned to Quennel. "Ok, you're angry, I can see that."

"Oh, angry does not _begin_ to describe my mood at the moment, Miss Yule," Sherlock ground out, cornering her, literally, in the corner at the back of the lift as John stepped up beside them, ready to protect Quennel if he had to. "Not only did I have to negotiate Mycroft's help in finding you employment and a living space, which is irritating in and of itself, but I _allowed_ you to remain with John and myself, which was an inconvenience, more for myself than for John but then, when Mycroft gives you this offer I've arranged for you, you refuse?!"

"I told you why I did," Quennel replied, unafraid of his tone, or his proximity. "I don't take charity. I never _asked_ you to help me. As I said before, I appreciate you going through all of the trouble, and I'll compensate you for it any way I can, but I do things on my own."

"She said the same thing to Mycroft, Sherlock," John assured him.

"I don't care if she lied through her teeth to Mycroft!" Sherlock spat as Quennel watched him closely when he looked back at her. "You said you would take the flat. Did you mean _that_ at all?"

"I'll consider it," she nodded, calmly. "I'll need a place to stay. I certainly can't stay with you forever."

"You'll need someone to take care of you," John chimed in as Sherlock turned to start the lift's descent again, crossing his arms in front of him.

"I can take care of myself, John," Quennel assured him. "Maybe Doctor Adams makes house calls?"

"Absolutely not," Sherlock blurted as the lift stopped and he sailed out, Quennel trying to keep up as best she could with John fussing after her.

"What do you mean, 'absolutely not'?" she shot back, imitating his tone as she caught up to him. "What gives you the right to say who I would have at my flat or not?"

"You mean _other_ than the fact that _my _brother was the one who procured it for you?" he shot back, and she had the tact to look a little defeated.

"Touché," she muttered. "But in order to start this job with Molly and pay for that flat on my own, I'd have to be at least _mostly_ healed, and that will take a doctor's help."

"You're not staying in that flat while you recover then," Sherlock replied, stopping and turning to her and John as they stared up at him in wonder. He sighed in exasperation before adding, "Stay with us, we will take care of you, and when you've recovered, you can move in to the flat Mycroft procured for you." He stepped closer to her to loom over her, making her frown in wonder rather than quake in fear as many did when he was that close, and glaring at them like he was. She instead found her heart racing, and not with a shred of fear at his closeness. "I'd rethink Mycroft's offer. I understand not wanting to take charity, but you earned the job offer he's given you by your own merits. Mycroft never would've come to you if he wasn't able to exploit something from you."

Quennel bit her lower lip in thought before nodding, "Alright, I'll think about it. Maybe…tell him I might change my mind and…to keep a look out for my call, then."

She straightened slightly when she noticed the corners of his mouth twitch and he nodded before turning and heading for the door, Quennel and John hurrying after him. He hailed a cab once they caught up to him and when it pulled up John helped Quennel in as Sherlock climbed in after them, giving the cabby an address that wasn't 221B Baker Street.

"Taking me to the crime scene?" Quennel smirked.

"No," Sherlock drawled. "John and I will be looking at the car he was killed in, we'll have the cabby take you back to Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson knows where the soothers are. She can take care of you while we work. We won't be long."

They were silent the rest of the ride to the impound lot where Sherlock and John climbed out, John handing the cabby some money and telling him where to take her.

"Mr. Holmes," Quennel called, shifting closer to the window and he leaned down to look at her.

"Yes, Miss Yule?" he replied, nearly bending himself in half to look down at her, his head framed perfectly in the window.

Quennel smiled, sweetly before shifting to lean out of the window and press a kiss to his cheek. She leaned back to find him staring at her with wide, blue eyes, glazed over in confusion.

"Thank you for nagging your brother about employment and a flat for me," she smiled. "I _am _grateful. I know it doesn't seem like it, but I am. Thank you for everything. Oh, and I'm looking forward to dinner tonight."

She noticed his jaw twitch, and his Adam's apple bob slightly as he swallowed and nodded, standing tall without a word as John appeared in the window.

"He'll get you to Baker Street," he assured her. "Just remember to use the cane, and I'll call Mrs. Hudson."

"John, quit fussing!" she laughed, shoving on his shoulder. "Go solve a crime."

He nodded with a warm smile then stepped away from the cab to let it roll down the street, looking to Sherlock who stared after the cab.

"Something wrong, Sherlock?" John frowned in wonder.

"No," Sherlock chirped then blurted, "She only kissed me on the cheek, that's all."

He turned and headed down the street, the cab having left them a block or so from the impound. John nodded, but when the words finally registered he shot a stare to Sherlock's back and rushed after him.

"She did _what_?" he questioned, hurrying up next to Sherlock and still staring at him in shock.

"Yes, John, you heard right," Sherlock retorted, casually. "She kissed me."

"And made _you _stare after the cab, which means it did something to you, didn't it, Tin Man?" John smirked, making Sherlock stop and frown at him in wonder. "Oh, really, Sherlock? Tin Man? Nothing up there in that mind palace about Oz?"

"Oz?" Sherlock frowned a bit deeper.

"As in the Wizard of," John retorted.

"Are you suggesting, again, that I have no heart?" Sherlock guessed with what little he had to go on and not understanding the movie reference.

"Well, perhaps Dorothy is finding it in you?" John smirked, making Sherlock frown at him in confusion again before John sighed, rolling his eyes and heading down the street. "Come on, Tin Man."

"I'd appreciate you not using references I don't understand, John," Sherlock called after him, quickly catching up to him.

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><p><strong>AN:** reviews?


	14. Distraction

**A/N:** new chappie! enjoy!

* * *

><p><em><strong>Chapter 14: Distracting<strong>_

Quennel stared at the file sitting on Mrs. Hudson's table as the landlady bustled about her kitchen, fixing up one of her soothers Sherlock had given her to ease Quennel's pain. She was also making up some lunch for the two of them, Quennel assuring Mrs. Hudson she didn't need much to eat. She planned on stuffing her face at dinner tonight when Sherlock took her to dinner that night. Telling her that was a mistake. Mrs. Hudson had been going on and on about it as she scurried around her kitchen.

"I'm so glad you two are going out again tonight!" Mrs. Hudson grinned as she set a mug of steaming liquid next to her on the table. "It's very hot, dear, so be careful."

Quennel frowned at the mug and look over it and sniff at the steam before asking, "What is it?"

"Something to help you heal," Mrs. Hudson assured her, setting a plate with a sandwich on it in front of Quennel as well, setting the same for herself at the table to sit in the chair across from the young woman. "Do you know what you're wearing tonight?"

"Um…the black dress," she replied, lifting the sandwich with one hand and starting to eat, still staring at the closed file.

"Oh, dear, you should mix things up a bit!" Mrs. Hudson insisted, making Quennel look up at her in wonder as she swallowed her bite. "Men need variety! Especially Sherlock Holmes. Try something in red. You look lovely in red."

Quennel frowned in thought before nodding, "Well…I do have a nice dress in red I can wear. Not sure if it's…appropriate for a second date."

"I doubt Sherlock will know the difference," Mrs. Hudson chuckled, starting on her lunch and making Quennel snicker as well.

"No, but _I _will, and that's the point," Quennel smirked, lowering her sandwich to open the file, piquing the landlady's interest.

"What's that?"

"Particulars on a job offer," Quennel replied, reading over a few words before sighing and shutting the file again. "A job I might just have to take, much as I'd probably hate to."

"Why would you hate it?" Mrs. Hudson wondered.

"Because…it feels like charity," Quennel murmured before changing the subject. "So, Mrs. Hudson, can I ask, has Sherlock ever been in a relationship besides being married to his work?"

"Not that I know of," she chuckled back. "Then again, I always thought he and John were…you know."

"Mrs. Hudson, I can assure you, Doctor John Watson is very much into women," Quennel smirked, making her laugh and nod.

"Where are they again? John just told me they needed me to look after you."

"They're on a case," Quennel replied, blowing on the drink she'd been given to take a sip. "Mm! Not bad. Mrs. Hudson, would you like to see that red dress I might wear tonight?"

"I'd love to, dearie!" the landlady grinned, and Quennel slowly stood as the older woman piled everything onto a tray to take up the stairs.

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><p><em>Meanwhile...<em>

"Quennel was right," Sherlock explained, lying under the Jaguar with a light and his magnifying glass, examining the hole in the driver's side. "Sure marksmanship and a high caliber weapon was used. He would've had to have been aiming blind. Oh, this _is_ interesting! John! Tell Lestrade the weapon was an M16, disassembled to become a handgun. It's the only way he could aim it properly from the underside of the car. We'll be looking for someone with a military background, obviously. An assassin for hire. As to who hired him…I'll need to look a bit more at the victim's file. And interrogate the wife."

"Mrs. Jones," John replied, looking at his phone as he texted the information to Lestrade and Sherlock slid out from under the car on the creeper he was lying on to frown up at him.

"What?" Sherlock blurted.

"The victim's name is Jones," John reported. "Victor Jones. His wife is Wendy Jones."

"Oh, what do I care what their names are?" Sherlock muttered, rolling out from under the car completely before standing and making his way to the driver's side to inspect it. "In any case, he wasn't wearing a wedding ring. Suggests he was coming back from a rendezvous with his mistress. That and the lipstick smudges I noticed on his neck." He caught the scent of cigarette smoke and inhaled deeply before reporting, "He was a regular smoker. He had a dog…a large one by the location of the hair on the front seat. Length and color suggests a German Shepherd. He drove with both feet. Highly dangerous."

"You can tell that from his driving pedals?" John frowned, texting quickly.

"There's extensive ware on the wrong side of the pedal if he drove with one foot," Sherlock explained, stepping back to examine the tires. "Significant ware on the tires as well."

"Why didn't you tell Lestrade about the adultery at St. Bart's?" John wondered, still texting the Detective Inspector.

"I was a bit busy at the moment, if you hadn't noticed, John," Sherlock shot back, making John chuckle.

"Yeah, Quennel's a nice distraction, isn't she?" John smirked, making Sherlock pop up to glare at him on the other side of the car.

"Exactly _what_ are you implying, John?" he questioned, his eyes narrowing at his friend.

"I've made a few deductions of my own, Sherlock," John chuckled. "Your reaction when we found Quennel, the fact that you wouldn't leave her bedside in hospital, that composition I found yesterday, you getting your brother to find her a flat and a job, not to mention your reaction when she refused him, and dinner tonight. You are, what we ignorant folk would call, smitten."

"I have no sentiment or heart, as I've been told numerous times," Sherlock shot back, marching toward John to sail around him toward the exit of the impound, popping his collar on his coat. "What was it you called me? The Tin Man?"

"Yes, but Quennel's different, isn't she?" John guessed, hurrying after his friend.

"The Woman was rather different as well," Sherlock recalled, still heading for the street and not looking at John as he hailed a cab.

"Yes, but Quennel has no ulterior motive," John reported as the climbed in the cab. "She's no dominatrix, either. Rather the opposite of the Woman, don't you think? A bit cuter as well. She didn't even have to get naked to catch your interest."

"John, do shut up," Sherlock shot back before giving the cabby Victor Jones's address.

"Why are we going there?" John wondered. "Don't you have reservations for seven tonight?"

"Yes, but I must speak to…Mrs. Jones, is it?" Sherlock replied. "It won't take long." They were silent as John texted Lestrade again then tucked his phone away when Sherlock spoke again. "John, I need you to run an errand for me while I speak to Mrs. Jones.

"Ok," John nodded with a frown. "What is it?"

Sherlock handed him a small piece of paper, which John took, still frowning, but Sherlock explained, "I need you to pick something up for me at this address and get it back to Baker Street. It's for our dinner tonight."

* * *

><p><em>Later at Baker Street...<em>

"You look _very_ lovely!" Mrs. Hudson nodded in agreement as she Quennel stood in front of her in the red dress she was going to wear for dinner. "The black one is nice but this one will have Sherlock reeling!"

"Mrs. Hudson!" Quennel laughed, nervously, shifting uncomfortably in her sling and leaning on the cane. "I doubt anything would make Sherlock reel. The closest he got to that was when he said I looked nice in the black dress." She looked down at herself to examine herself, muttering, "Besides, I think it loses its impact due to the sling and cane. And it's better with heels…which I can't wear at the moment."

"Oh, no, dear, it still looks splendid!" Mrs. Hudson assured her, standing to inspect her a little closer. "It hugs your figure just right, accentuating your waist with the rouching on the left side, and the slit is the perfect height." She tapped the place it stopped about a foot higher than the hem that stopped mid-shin. "And the neckline is low enough to tempt but not give everything away. Sherlock will reel."

They both looked down the hall when they heard a door open then shut and struggling footsteps heading up the stairs to the flat.

"Quennel?" John called, making her let out the breath she didn't realize she was holding as Mrs. Hudson stepped out of the room.

"In Sherlock's room, John!" called, turning back to Quennel just in time to see her sit on the mattress, heaving in her breaths as she placed a hand over her heart. "Quennel, are you alright?"

She could only shake her head as she hyperventilated, dropping the cane and gripping the sheets she sat on.

"John!" Mrs. Hudson called, panicking and not knowing what to do for the young woman, and rushed footsteps hurried down the hall before John was in the room, gently moving past his landlady to kneel in front of Quennel.

"Quennel," he soothed, lifting a hand to smooth it over her hair as she met his gaze in a panic. "You need to breathe normally, yes? In through your nose, out through your mouth. Inhale for four seconds for me." She did as he told her. "Now exhale for eight seconds. Repeat until your heart stops racing, got it?

"Quennel nodded as she exhaled and John turned to Mrs. Hudson, watching from the doorway in worry.

"Could you get her some water?" he requested and Mrs. Hudson nodded, retreating to the kitchen as he turned back to Quennel. "What happened?"

"N-nothing," she shuddered, shaking her head. "I just heard you coming up the stairs and…my heart stopped."

He nodded in understanding as Mrs. Hudson returned with a glass of water, handing it to him who took it and in turn gave it to Quennel. She drank from it, greedily as the other two watched her until she drained the glass and handed it back. John passed the glass to Mrs. Hudson, not taking his eyes off Quennel as her breathing normalized while she wiped her mouth.

"Is this that…PTSD thing?" she whispered to him, meeting his gaze as evenly as she could.

"Probably," he nodded. "It looked like a panic attack, which is understandable, considering what you went through. You thought I was a kidnapper."

She swallowed and nodded in confirmation before glancing to Mrs. Hudson in the doorway, watching them, making her heart sink in guilt.

"Mrs. Hudson, I'm sorry," she breathed. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"I'm just glad you're alright, dear," Mrs. Hudson smiled, warmly, stepping closer to take her hand and squeeze it gently. "I think I'll leave you in the capable hands of the doctor, here. You have a good dinner, Quennel."

"Thanks, Mrs. Hudson," she smiled in return, releasing the landlady's hand and watching her leave the room as John stood, drawing her attention to him. "John?"

"Yes?" he frowned in wonder before she looked to her lap to wring her fingers.

"You've…been through this PTSD thing before, right?" she murmured.

John gave a sigh before sitting next to her, lifting the cane to hand it to her before he replied, "In a sense. My problem was I was still a soldier in my mind. I didn't really know how to be a civilian. When I met Sherlock…I was thrown back into the danger…and I liked it."

Quennel nodded, still not looking at him, making him lean over to try catching her gaze.

"Everyone is different, Quennel," he murmured. "I can't tell you when you'll feel better. Maybe if you talk to someone, like a therapist, they can help you out? It doesn't even have to be a therapist. Just…someone. _Anyone_."

She nodded again, looking up at him with a warm smile, tears in her eyes as she whispered, "Thanks, John."

"I'm sorry I can't be more help," he confessed, but she shook her head.

"You're doing fine," she assured him. "It's my mind that's broken. Nothing you can do about that."

"It's not broken," he assured her. "Just a little tilted, that's all. We'll get it straightened out and you'll be back on track in no time."

She couldn't help but giggle at that before she jumped when she heard the door again and grasped john's hand.

"I'm pretty sure that's Sherlock," he assured her when her wide-eyed stare turned to him, and he paused to listen to the footfalls coming up the stairs, nodding, "Yup. It's Sherlock."

"He can't see me like this!" she whispered, making him frown. "Not before dinner! The element of surprise is all I have right now!"

John chuckled before nodding and hurriedly standing to make his way into the doorway, starting to close the door but leaning in to ask her, "You won't need help with anything?"

"No, I just have to pick out a coat and put make-up on," she assured him. "What time is it?"

John glanced at his watch, answering, "A quarter to six."

"Ok," she nodded. "I can do my make-up and hair with one hand. Just don't let him come down that hall."

"Yes, ma'am," he smirked with a wink before sweeping out of the room and shutting the door in time to face Sherlock right next to him, looming over him and glaring down at him. "Oh, hello, Sherlock."

"What are you doing in my room?" Sherlock questioned. "And where is Miss Yule?"

"In your room," John replied, then quickly added, "Getting ready for dinner. I've been ordered not to let you come down the hall so off you pop to watch telly or cook up a lung or something."

"I must enter my room at some point, John," Sherlock retorted. "I planned on, at the very least, changing my shirt. It is after all _my_ room." His last sentence was called out so that Quennel could hear him within, and a giggle came from the other side of the door. "Honestly, John, you're going to bar me from my own room?"

"You need a shirt?" john smirked, making Sherlock's eyes narrow at him. "What color? I'll get it for you."

Sherlock pursed his lips before taking a breath in through his nose and replying, evenly, "Something to compliment what she is wearing."

"Did I just hear that right?!" Quennel squeaked from within the room before opening the door to peek out at them as they looked to her head, seemingly hanging in the air as she hid behind the door. "Sherlock Holmes wants to _match_?!"

Sherlock sailed past John without a word, making her squeak and try to shut the door on him but he pushed it effortlessly open again and turned to face Quennel…still hiding behind the door.

"Why on Earth are you hiding?" he questioned, a genuine frown over his brow as John stepped in to watch the two.

"I don't want you to see my dress yet!" Quennel shot back, pulling the door back so she was pinned in the corner behind it. "Get out!"

"As stated before, this is _my_ room," he reminded her. "I should be asking _you_ to leave."

"John!" she nearly whined.

"Yeah, I got it," he assured her, stepping toward the closet as Sherlock frowned at his friend who only took one of Sherlock's dressing gowns and approached the corner to help Quennel wrap up in it so she could move about without Sherlock seeing her dress.

"This is ridiculous," Sherlock grumbled, pulling off his scarf and coat to toss it onto the bed, unbuttoning his suit jacket. "Why does it matter if I see you in your dress or not?"

"Because the way a woman looks should always surprise a man," she shot back as John stepped away and Sherlock finally noticed he'd wrapped her in his favorite blue dressing gown as he pulled off his suit jacket.

"Right," John sighed, sharply, glancing between the two. "I'm gonna set up that…thing I brought with me. You two, play nice."

Sherlock glared at John as he made his way out the hall, unbuttoning his shirt as Quennel watched him. She somehow tore her gaze from him to step toward her purse sitting on the bed and pull out her makeup bag, then to her suitcase to struggle with it, trying to pull it onto the bed to open it.

"Are you in need of assistance?" Sherlock asked, his fingers reaching the last button of his shirt and unbuttoning it as she glanced at him.

"Um…I think so," she murmured, defeated and approached, his shirt now hanging open and she couldn't help gazing at his pale, flawless skin before looking away as he leaned toward the case. "I need my hair products."

He stopped, making her frown up at him in wonder as he stared down at her.

"What?" she questioned when he said nothing and didn't move.

"Your hair looks fine," he noticed, making her roll her eyes.

"Yes, and it will look _better_ once I fix it up," she retorted, but he only continued to stare at her for a moment before he leaned down and pulled the case up onto the bed. "Thank you—What are you doing?"

She frowned as he unzipped the case and rummaged through it, looking for the products she'd said she needed.

"Mr. Holmes, I know you're not really a boundaries sort of bloke, but this is getting annoying," she blurted before he lifted a bag full of products and examined them through the plastic they were gathered in. "Look, if you're being attentive so I don't have to struggle so much with one hand and all, thanks, but—Sherlock!"

She watched him open the bag and start rummaging through it, and when she reached for the bag, he turned, swiftly, to avoid her reach and she growled in anger. She was about to call for John when he turned back, holding a bottle in his hand and making her frown in wonder as he popped the top off to sniff at the spray top. She watched him closely as he closed his eyes with a frown over his brow, and she could tell he was analyzing it, identifying and probably even cataloging it in the mind palace of his that John had told him. He placed the top back on and handed it to her, making her frown deepen as she reached out and took it to let him rummage through the bag again.

She had recognized the bottle as soon as she'd seen it as the only fragrance she ever wore. J'adore by Dior. He pulled out a thin comb and handed that to her as well, along with the smaller bag of decorative hairpins, then set the bag of products in her suitcase once more.

"That will be all you need, I think," he nodded, zipping up her suitcase and pulling it off the bed. "Now…which color shirt should I wear, Miss Yule?"

Quennel stared at with wide eyes as he stepped toward his closet, pulling off his shirt and tossing it toward the hamper, making her swallow as she only stared at his perfectly sculpted back.

"Um…" she hummed, trying to recall the question he'd asked, then trying to come up with an answer. "Burgundy?"

"Very well," he nodded, reaching into his closet and pulling the shirt out to slip it on. He reached down and lifted his suit jacket, coat and scarf. "I'll leave you to finish getting ready."

He turned and stepped out the door, shutting it behind him and she stared after him, taking in a deep breath to calm her racing heart before letting it out slowly and looking to the things he'd handed her. She couldn't help but smile as she realized she probably wouldn't even need much makeup if he only thought she needed a comb and something decorative or her hair. Sherlock was turning out to be easy to please when it came to appearance.

She reached into her makeup bag and pulled out a lipstick in a pink shade, a mirror and her black liquid eyeliner. She looked into the mirror to see if she had any blemishes to cover up with foundation, and when she found none, she lifted the eyeliner, lipstick, comb to tuck them into her sling and pick up the bottle of perfume, heading to the bathroom to finish getting ready.

When she set the bottle down and arranged her things so she could start on her makeup, she paused. She bit her lower lip and took the collar of Sherlock's dressing gown she still wore to press it to her nose and inhale deeply, her eyes closed. She smiled when something resembling Old Spice filled her senses. She noticed a trace of the scent of his flat as well. The flat had a scent of dusty books and burned firewood mixed together beautifully. She wished she could bottle this scent and use that instead of the Dior, but she thought better of that, since she was sure Sherlock would now associate that scent with her…just as this scent would always remind her of him.

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><p><strong>AN: **reviews?


	15. Galvin Bistrot de Luxe

**A/N: **new chappie! enjoy!

* * *

><p><em><strong>Chapter 15: Galvin Bistrot de Luxe<strong>_

Sherlock paced at the end of the hall, checking his watch and ignoring his ringing mobile as John sat at his laptop, typing away about their next case, The Butt of the Joke.

"It's a ridiculous title," Sherlock sneered, still pacing.

"It's a working title," John replied, glancing at him as his mobile still rang. "You gonna answer that?"

"It's Lestrade."

"Yeah?"

"I told him I had plans tonight. His goal is to irritate me with questions on what I could be possibly doing. That, or tease me relentlessly about Quennel. I'd rather just avoid dealing with either at the moment." Sherlock stopped to face the hall, glaring at his shut door. "Miss Yule, your punctuality would be appreciated!"

"Just getting my coat on, Mr. Holmes!" Quennel called back from his room without missing a beat and John couldn't help but chuckle.

"John, show me how to operate this thing," Sherlock ordered, marching toward the wheelchair sitting by the door and examining it, making John look to him with a frown.

"You don't know how to push a wheelchair?" John questioned, making Sherlock roll his eyes before glaring at him.

"I don't come upon many situations that call for it," he snarked. "The salesperson said something about a way to keep it from rolling away. That will be useful at the dinner table."

"Yeah," John nodded as he stood and stepped toward the chair to show him where the brake was. "Put this down and it locks the wheels. There's nothing to pushing it, really, you just hold onto the handles and…well, push. Think the brilliant Sherlock Holmes can handle that?"

"Your mockery is not appreciated, John," Sherlock shot back as John only smirked before glancing toward the hall and waved with a full smile, making Sherlock look up to see Quennel stepping out of the hall, leaning on John's cane in a long black coat with a faux fur collar. Her hair was combed with a glittering red hairband in it, nothing but black eyeliner and red lipstick on her face and black ballet flats on her feet.

"What's that?" she frowned at the wheelchair.

"Again, your question is obtuse," he reported.

"Sherlock," John scolded.

"Well, I know _what_ it is, my question was meant to be, why is it here?" Quennel retorted.

"For your comfort, Miss Yule," Sherlock replied. "John, could you carry it down for us?"

"Sod off, carry it yourself," John snickered, making his friend glare at him.

"I am not a cripple, Mr. Holmes," she snapped, making both men frown up at her in confusion.

"I am…confused," Sherlock admitted. "I thought perhaps you would rather have the convenience of a wheelchair then the strain of that crutch holding you up."

"And have you wheel me around London?" Quennel retorted, glaring at him.

"As I said, for your comfort," Sherlock nodded.

"Quennel," John piped up, and her glare turned on him. "He just wants you to relax for your dinner. Give your other arm a rest, you know? This is as close to gallant as he's gonna get."

Quennel glanced to her arm then looked to Sherlock in guilt at what she'd said to him and nodded, murmuring, "I'm…sorry, Sherlock."

"Your remarks, though meant to be hurtful, have not had the effect on me you thought, Miss Yule," he replied, lifting a gloved hand toward her and she frowned but made her way toward him. He took the cane and left it next to the door, letting her wrap her right arm around his left so that he could help her down the stairs, making John glance between them and the wheelchair. "John—"

"Yeah, yeah," John muttered, folding the wheelchair to lug it down after them.

"Thank you," Quennel murmured as they reached the bottom of the stairs. "I just…didn't get much sleep last night. I'm a bit irritable."

"As I said, your words had little effect," he assured her, pulling her out into the street as John set the wheelchair down next to them. "Thank you, John. Don't wait up."

"Do I ever?" John wondered as Sherlock held a helped Quennel sit in the wheelchair, making her frown up at him over her shoulder. "Quennel, try not to ditch him, eh?"

Sherlock frowned at him with a word as John made his way back to the door and shut it behind him and Quennel couldn't help but giggle as Sherlock turned his frown to her.

"Something amusing, Miss Yule?" he wondered, looming over her from behind.

"John," she smirked, shaking her head. "As if I could even try ditching you. You took my cane." She didn't see a slight smirk twitch his lips before he began pushing her down the street, making her frown again. "Aren't we taking a cab?"

"The restaurant is just down the street," he replied, still pushing. "Galvin Bistrot de Luxe. 66 Baker Street. I thought you noticed the website, Miss Yule."

"I did, but I didn't see the address," she admitted, she fiddled with her small clutch containing some cash, her lipstick, her identity card and her mobile.

"I see you didn't do much with your hair…or your makeup," Sherlock noticed.

"Is there a compliment or insult somewhere in there, Mr. Holmes?" she smirked.

"And you're wearing your perfume."

"Well, you handed it to me, and I figured, since you were treating me, I thought I'd get gussied up for you."

"You're not wearing the black dress, though."

"And how did you deduce that?" Quennel smirked.

"The fact that you wouldn't let me see you in the dress was a glaringly obvious hint. I've seen you in it before. And the color of the shirt you chose for me would have been black if that was what you were wearing since I had requested from John something to compliment your outfit, so clearly you'd decided on wearing something else. But why?"

"Oh, Mrs. Hudson suggested I…give you a bit of variety," she smirked, making him frown down at the glittering red hairband on her head. "She assured me you'd like this one. You'll see it at dinner."

"Of all the people, you shouldn't take advice on men from Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock warned her.

"How do you know she gave me advice on men?" she wondered, turning to look up at him.

"So it _was_ advice on men," he smirked, making her glare at him before turning and huffing in the chair. "I should warn you, Miss Yule, no person, man, woman or child has been able to even imagine what I, personally, would prefer in…anything, really."

"Well, maybe I'll make a few deductions of my own tonight, Mr. Holmes," Quennel smirked but frowned when her mobile vibrated and she reached into her clutch for it, reading the text she received. "Is there a reason Lestrade is telling me to go easy on you between the sheets?"

Sherlock growled and leaned over to grab her phone, tucking it into his pocket.

"Oi—!"

"Trust me, he'll be bothering us all night," he cut in, turning both his mobile and hers off before shoving them back into his pocket.

"What if there's an emergency?" Quennel asked when he shut the mobiles off.

"John will ring the restaurant, or Mycroft will find a way to contact me," he replied. "Believe me, anything Lestrade has to say is tedious and frustratingly annoying."

"He tried asking me out once," she recalled, and she nearly felt his eyes burning into the back of her head, making her smirk. "At the time, it was an occupational hazard."

"I'm surprised Lestrade would even try, considering he's a policeman and you are—_were_ a reporter."

"Well, Lestrade isn't too much for convention. He's proved that by coming to you for help on a number of his cases."

"Ah, here we are."

Quennel looked up just as Sherlock turned her wheelchair up to the door where the host opened it for them, greeting them as they passed. The small tables were draped in white linen, and calla lilies adorned some of them in tall stocks, the white in the room only made brighter by the dark wood of the chairs, tables, bar and floor. When Sherlock was asked what the reservation was, he replied with his name and they were quickly seated at a table farther to the back of the room. Quennel couldn't stop looking around as Sherlock pushed her chair up to the table, then hesitantly put the break on, as John had showed him, so she wouldn't roll away before sitting himself in front of her.

"May I interest you in a wine list?" the waiter asked, and Sherlock waved him away but Quennel stopped him with a gentle hand on his arm.

"I would, thank you," she smiled, sweetly as Sherlock gave her a glare and she took the list to peek over her, smirking, "If you're treating, I'd like to have the option of wine. You can chose my entrée, since you're so keen to make decisions for me."

"Any other demands on your part, Miss Yule?" Sherlock retorted as the waiter returned and she glanced at the detective with a sly smirk.

"For starters, you can call me Quennel," she smiled before looking back to the waiter, handing him the list. "We'll have a bottle of the '03 Burgundy, please, with two glasses."

The waiter looked surprised as he glanced at Sherlock before leaning down to whisper, "Miss, that's the most expensive wine on the list."

"Is it?" she feigned innocence before looking to Sherlock and smirked, "Bring two, then."

"Glasses?"

"Bottles."

Sherlock's gaze narrowed at her as she only smiled back at him and the waiter nodded before hurrying back to the kitchen to fill the order.

"You mean to bankrupt me, don't you?" he muttered.

"Sherlock, you and I both know you're paying with Mycroft's credit card," she smirked. "I saw you pickpocket him the other day. It wasn't as subtle as you think."

"Mycroft didn't notice," he couldn't help but smirk, just slightly.

"He wouldn't," she smirked. "Too busy trying to get a rise out of you to think about where his wallet was."

Sherlock smirked again as the waiter brought one of the bottles and two glasses of wine, two menus tucked under his arm as he poured. He left the menus and stepped away to give them time to choose as Quennel lifted her glass.

"Too Mycroft," she smirked, giving him a wink and he gave her a slight frown before lifting his glass and tapping it to hers. She took a drink and nodded approvingly as Sherlock took a sip as well before looking to his menu. "Now, then…I'll need something easy to eat with one hand."

"Might I suggest the fish, Miss—Quennel?" Sherlock advised, making her look up from her menu with a smile before lifting her chin to look down at it when he looked back at her. "You can cut into with a fork."

"Oh, Sherlock, stop making me swoon," she smirked, making him frown up at her and she couldn't help but giggle as the waiter returned and she closed her menu to hand it to him, leaning on her good arm to smile at Sherlock and tell him, "Order for me, then?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and handed his menu to the waiter as well, telling him, "Two sea bass."

The waiter scurried away as Quennel stared at Sherlock in surprise and he frowned back at her.

"Yes?"

"You're eating?" she blinked.

"Isn't that what people do when they come out to dinner?" he retorted.

"But…you said you don't eat on a case," she recalled. "Or did you solve it?"

"Not yet," he replied, lifting his wine to sip at it. "But, since this is Mycroft's money, I thought I'd succumb to convention."

Quennel smiled, slyly before lifting her glass to drink then frowned when she noticed him staring at her.

"What? Something on my face?"

"You haven't removed your coat," he noticed, making her stop and her smile widened.

"No, I haven't," she smirked. "It's rather cozy. I think I'll keep it on."

"If you wish," he shrugged, and she realized he was calling her bluff, knowing she would have to take it off eventually if she wanted to eat, comfortably.

Not wanting to give in that easily she feigned defeat and rolled her eyes, sighing, "Fine. I'll take it off…_but_…" She couldn't help but smirk when he looked up at her, a slight glimmer in his eyes at the tone of her voice, indicating she had some sort of challenge for him. "You have to deduce every person I point out. We'll see how many you can get in before my coat comes off."

Sherlock shifted in his chair, watching her as she smiled back, knowing what he was thinking and shaking her head.

"Deduction first, _then_ I start pulling it off," she said, and he nodded in agreement before she glanced around the room, but decided to start with the staff first. She looked back at him and whispered, "Our waiter."

"Single, lives alone, hasn't been a steady relationship for about two months now, possibly because he can't keep a steady job, either. This is his third job in as many weeks. Speaks to his grooming and character. Disheveled, lack of confidence. He won't get very far here. He'll be lucky if he survives tonight. He's recently quit smoking, indicated by the shaky hands and slight agitation. He's hardly said a word to us since we sat down, and he's worried he's going to be found out by management that he and the host are sleeping together."

"Honestly?!" Quennel chirped, looking back at the host as he seated a family of four then stared at Sherlock with wide eyes. "Do him next!"

"We had an agreement, I believe," he smirked back and she couldn't help but blush slightly as she suddenly realized that for every deduction he gave, she basically had to strip. Deciding on drawing it out as long as possible, she only unbuttoned the first button of her coat then smirked when he gave a slight scowl, realizing he should've asked her to elaborate on this little game they were playing.

"Deduce the host and I'll undo another button," she assured him, making him sigh through his nose and look to the host as he spoke with a few patrons.

"Married, with two children, secret homosexual, we've established that already, but unwilling to leave his wife, possibly because of the children, more likely because of the wife's money. He's worked here for some time, by the way he greets certain customers who are obviously regulars. He owns a small dog, a corgi, by the length and color of the hairs on his pant leg and, vest and sleeve. He loves the dog more than he does his children, noted by the wrinkles on his sleeve hear his cuff where one of them has been tugging on him to get his attention while he held the dog before he left the house. And, as stated before, he is sleeping with our waiter."

Quennel couldn't help but smile at him as he looked back at her and nodded before undoing another button on the coat then looked around the room. Three buttons left, then the shoulders and she'd find out if he really would be reeling as Mrs. Hudson had said he would. She was torn between giving up the game, impatient to see his reaction, and making it last as long as she possibly could.

"That family of four the host just sat," she finally chose, and his eyes darted toward them as he lifted his glass of wine to take a sip before speaking.

"American. On holiday. Judging by their wardrobe I'd say they were from New York. Obviously escaping the turmoil at home from both mum _and_ dad having an affair, the daughter cutting herself and the son generally being ignored, put on the back burner due to his sister's…issues. What's the matter?"

Quennel shook her head, lifting her napkin to dab her eyes as she kept her head bowed. He'd glanced at her when she seemed to slump in her chair, then noticed she wasn't looking at him with excited eyes as she had been a moment ago, prompting his question.

"Nothing," she murmured, undoing another button then looking around the room. "Let's move to the next deduction. That couple in the corner."

Sherlock frowned at her, but seeing she'd kept her end of the deal, decided to do as she suggested, guessing hearing about that family's turmoil had struck at her empathy. Looking to the couple he gave a smirk before leaning forward and catching her attention.

"He's about to propose," he whispered, making her stare at him with wide eyes before she turned to look at them, and the men was going down onto one knee, a small box, sitting open in his hand as the women looked shocked and tears welled in her eyes. "Why do women always looked so shocked when men propose to them? I'm sure it's something discussed during the relationship if it's lasted that long, isn't it?"

"It's not that we're surprised that you're proposing, Sherlock," Quennel smiled, undoing another button on her coat and reaching for her wine to take a sip. "It's the timing. You've done it when we least expect it."

"How could you not see it coming?" he retorted.

"Sometimes, when you start the conversation, it sounds like we're being dumped," she shrugged. "The ring coming out is a surprise."

"The food has arrived," he announced as the waiter sailed up next to them and set their plates down in front of them, and Sherlock nodded as Quennel gave a smile of thanks before he hurried away. "And I think the last deduction was more than enough, don't you think?"

She sighed in defeat and nodded along, undoing the last button of her coat and maneuvering it off her shoulders. Now she was thankful she had the wheelchair, and she could let it rest against the back and on the seat as she pushed the sides off her legs.

"I knew it would be red," Sherlock smirked, taking his silverware in his hands to start at his food and Quennel slumped slightly. He most certainly did not seem to be reeling.

"Well, so much for that, then," she muttered, lifting her fork and stabbing it into her fish, making him look up at her with a frown.

"Pardon?" he asked.

"You were supposed to…reel," she snapped, waving her fork around before stabbing the fish again as he stared at her in confusion. "What was the point of me shimmying into this getup if it had no effect on you?"

"I never said I wasn't effected, Quennel," he replied, making her eyes shoot up at him just as she was about to take a bite of her food. Amber eyes met glowing blues as she registered that his tone was a touch lower than the tone he normally used, making her fight the shiver threatening to rack her body. His gaze left hers to look up at someone approaching her from behind and she lowered her fork with a frown to follow his gaze.

"Quennel?"

The sound of the voice and the face she was met with when she looked up sent a surge of panic through her entire body that she couldn't hide, but she couldn't hide the nervous smile that came with it.

"Scarlett," she smiled as the young woman with long, flowing brown hair looked down at Quennel with lavender eyes, glowing with confusion and concern, possibly as to why Quennel was in a wheelchair. Quennel glanced between Scarlett and Sherlock before introducing, "Um…Scarlett, this is Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock this is Scarlett McAdams. My sister."

Sherlock glanced to Quennel with a slight frown before standing and shaking Scarlett's hand, Scarlett smiling with a nod, "Adopted sister, really. My parents adopted her when she was about five. She and I are the same age."

"Adopted," Sherlock nodded, still standing and looking to Quennel with a smug smirk, but she ignored him to look to Scarlett.

"So, what brings you here?" Quennel asked her as Sherlock sat again.

"I'm on a date, actually," Scarlett blushed, slightly. "But when I saw you I had to say hello. It's been some time since we saw each other last."

"Yes…a long time," Quennel nodded.

"What happened to you?" Scarlett asked as Sherlock silently watched them both. "Were you in some sort of accident?"

"Oh…it's a bit of a story," Quennel replied, trying to side-step the question. "You should get back to your beau. I'm sure he's missing you."

"Yes," Scarlett giggled, glancing in that direction before leaning toward Quennel to whisper, I've been trying to call mum and dad, but no one's answering."

Quennel seemed to understand what that meant and sighed in defeat, catching Sherlock's attention as he sat forward when she glanced at him.

"Did you try Alex?" she asked Scarlett, then frowned when something crossed her sister's eyes before she shook her head. "Alright, I'll call Alex and maybe we'll all take a cab down there or something to check on them. Unless you'd rather not?"

"Let me know if you need me," Scarlett replied. "I can't…be around Alex anymore."

"That bad?" Quennel frowned, and Scarlett only nodded. "Alright. We'll look into it and if we need you there I'll give you a call. Thanks for saying hello."

They said their goodbyes and Sherlock watched Scarlett head back to her table before looking to Quennel and blurting, "She's hiding something."

"I know," Quennel murmured, turning back to her food.

"Who is Alex?" he wondered, starting at his own plate again.

"Our brother," Quennel explained. "Scarlett is the only biological child of my parents. Alex and I were both adopted."

"And not being able to get into contact with them is abnormal?" he guessed, having heard some of their conversation.

"It's normal enough," she shrugged, her gaze trained on her plate. "But it usually means they're both off the wagon. Dad's a drunk and mum's a drug addict. You weren't wrong when you first met me. They have money, but they squander it on drink and drugs. I left as soon as I was able. So did Scarlett. Alex stayed long enough to get them back in line, but every once in a while we all end up back there, cleaning up the bottles and needles and getting them sober again."

"And Alex and Scarlett?" he asked. "Why can't they be near each other?"

"Scarlett and Alex…" she sighed, tiredly as she trailed off before resuming, "Scarlett and Alex…they used to get along fine. Then something changed between them once we all hit puberty. We're all about the same age, so you can imagine the chaos we all caused, but those two were the worst of it. Scarlett would go off on Alex for standing too close in the kitchen or making a grab for the remote at the same time she did and their hands touched. Shouting matches and rows were an everyday occurrence. Finally they just stopped talking to each other."

Sherlock had his hands steepled under his chin, making her frown at him before glancing at his plate, then looked back at him, realizing what he was doing.

"Don't try to figure it out, Sherlock. This is one deduction I _don't_ want to be witness to."

"Even if I know exactly what it is that's wrong between the two of them?" he wondered, and he saw her hesitate before taking a bite of her food, but she shook her head.

"When she's ready, she'll tell me," she replied, taking a sip of her wine.

"And if she never is?" he shot back with a raised brow.

"Then she never will," she retorted. "It's her story to tell, not yours. I would think you could respect that, Mr. Holmes."

Their gazes met again and he gave a small nod before she turned back to her food.

"Did you wish to have dessert?" he wondered, noticing her finish off the last of her food.

"I could do with a Tiramisu," she sighed, sitting back a bit with a smile as the waiter returned. "Can't seem to fight that sweet tooth of mine."

"One take away Tiramisu with that other bottle of wine, and the check," Sherlock ordered, handing Mycroft's credit card to the waiter who nodded before stepping away as Quennel frowned at him in wonder.

"Why can't I have it here?" she wondered.

"Because the night, as they say, is still young," he replied, finishing off his glass and putting the cork in the open bottle of wine at their table. "Finish your glass. We'll take the bottles with us."

"With us where?" she insisted as the waiter returned and Sherlock signed the receipt before handing it back to him. A boxed and bagged Tiramisu was placed in front of her, along with the second bottle of wine in a bag that could carry it and the first.

"You'll see," Sherlock replied, standing to step behind her, lifting the break then pulling the collar of her coat up to wrap it around her shoulders. "I think you'll enjoy it."

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><p><strong>AN:** now we're getting into Quennel's past and life. I know that took a while but I needed time to get her backstory straight. reviews?


	16. The Girl Next Door

**A/N:** new chappie! enjoy!

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><p><em><strong>Chapter 16: The Girl Next Door<strong>_

"I thought we weren't heading back yet," Quennel recalled as Sherlock wheeled her down the street.

"We're not, he replied, simply, making her sigh as she sat back in the chair. They were silent for a few moments and she could tell he was thinking…and he could feel her thinking as well. "You have more questions?"

"What do you think about the new case you're on?" she asked, without hesitation.

"Professional, obviously," he replied. "He had a mistress, which would suggest the wife hired someone, but she knew nothing of the affair when I met with her. His record is clean. Not even a traffic citation. Boring. Obviously not in trouble with the government."

"So…why would he be killed by a hired assassin?" she nodded.

"That would be the question, would it not?" he murmured, glancing down at her and they were silent again for a moment before he looked ahead, asking, "Will you take Mycroft's offer?"

"I said I would think about it," she sighed.

"Yes, but I believe you should take the offer."

"I know you do, and I appreciate it, I'm just…"

Sherlock glanced down at her again when she trailed off then sighed again.

"Yes?" he prompted.

"I'm not sure I want to be in debt to the Holmes brothers," she replied, turning her gaze to her lap. "Knowing the two of you has proven hazardous to my health already."

He took in a breath though his nose and was grateful she couldn't really see him as regret glowed in his blue eyes. It would do no good for anyone to know he actually felt guilt.

"It will be safer for you, though you may not believe it," he advised. "You will have…the best protection if you work for him. And you will be close by to us if you accept the flat he found for you."

Quennel frowned in wonder, asking, "Close to…you and John?"

"Yes," he nodded then stopped, turning her chair to face the building they had stopped in front of. "And, here it is."

Quennel frowned up at the building before looking to the building next to it and her eyes widened in surprise.

"That's…" she trailed off, pointing to the building next door with her good hand. "That's…221. Are you saying my new flat would be in _this_ building? Next to yours?"

"223, yes," Sherlock nodded. "Mrs. Turner's already made the arrangements. You can move in when you're ready. You'll be in 223 A."

"Was this upon request, or did Mycroft, honestly, just happen to find this on the 'for rent' list?" Quennel retorted, looking up at him over her shoulder as he wheeled her toward the door that had no steps, unlike the 221 building.

"My instructions were to find a flat as close as possible to John and I," Sherlock replied, knocking on the door. "This was an honest coincidence."

She narrowed her gaze at him before recalling, "You don't believe in coincidence."

"I don't, but in this case, I wouldn't know what else to call it," he replied. "Happenstance?"

"Same thing."

"Very well, then," he nodded before they turned to the door when it opened. An older woman with brown hair and catlike gray eyes opened the door wearing an apron covered in bit of food, a hand towel in her hands.

"Sherlock! Come for a visit?" she smiled, her aged face wrinkling a bit more as she did.

"Of sorts, Mrs. Turner," he nodded with a polite, strained smile before turning to Quennel and holding a hand toward her in presentation. "Mrs. Turner, this is Miss Quennel Yule. The lodger I told you about. I've brought her to have a look at that flat you're renting out."

"Oh, of course!" Mrs. Turner grinned as she waved them in, backing away from the door to let Sherlock push Quennel forward into the building. Mrs. Turner went left a she reached into her pocket and the keys jingled as she pulled them out to open the door. "Everything is wheelchair accessible for as long as you'll need it."

"This is just a rental," Quennel assured her as Mrs. Turner pushed the door open and entreated them to head inside. Sherlock nodded his thanks before pushing Quennel forward as she glanced around the fully furnished flat. Her eyes widened when she recognized the furniture making her squeak, "When did my furniture get here?!"

"Sherlock had it brought in, dear," Mrs. Turner replied. "He said you'd want to move in right away when you were able."

"Thank you, Mrs. Turner," Sherlock cut in. "That will be all for now. We'll lock up before we leave."

Quennel glared back at him as Mrs. Turner nodded, hesitantly before leaving the keys on the side table by the door and shutting it. She still glared at him as he stood tall, his hands held behind his back as he strolled around her to face her.

"Yes, our thing were brought here under the assumption that you would take Mycroft's offer, as it seemed you had no other choice but to do so," he nodded.

"You're rather attached to assumptions, aren't you, Mr. Holmes?" she shot back before glancing around once more than looking back to him with a defiantly arched brow, haughtily retorting, "I don't like the way you set this up. It's mucking with my Zen."

"That is a remark made out of irritation, Miss Yule," he shot back. "The furniture has been moved to an esthetically pleasing arrangement. Convenient and sensible."

"For _you_, maybe, but I don't like it," she retorted, making him roll his eyes before rounding her again to grip the handles of the wheelchairs and push her through the flat toward the sectioned lounge area to her right where her sofa sat in front of the fireplace. If he'd turned her left they would've been in the kitchen/dining area, and to the right of the lounge area was the bedroom with an en suite washroom. "Nice fireplace, though."

"We can have you moved in by tomorrow afternoon," Sherlock told her, as she glared around the flat. "Other than your displeasure at its proximity to John and I, the fact that my brother procured it for you and that I've had your furniture moved in, what do you think of it?"

Quennel glared around, wishing she could cross her arms in a huff, but instead slumped in her chair…now displeased that she actually _liked_ the flat.

"Well?" he urged. "Give me your opinion. John was most insistent that I ask it and report back to him."

She gave a small sneer before muttering something, making him frown and lower his ear closer to her head.

"What?"

"I like it," she snarled as he stood tall with a smug smirk then nodded. "You're looking smug now, aren't you, Mr. Holmes?"

"Wouldn't dream of it, Miss Yule," he smirked on, pulling her back to give her the tour of the rest of the flat. "I believe this would be the proper instance to say this flat is in need of a woman's touch."

"John taught you that phrase, didn't he?" Quennel smirked smugly this time.

"Actually, it was a phrase I heard Mrs. Hudson use," he replied, making her giggle.

"No doubt she said it of your flat," she guessed then giggled. "However, your flat is more of a bachelor pad. A _brainy _bachelor pad."

She laughed heartily before turning to look up at Sherlock over her shoulder, but he was scowling.

"You're such a handsome man, Sherlock," she said, making him stop and look down at her in surprise as she only smiled, sweetly before adding, "Scowling like that will only age you faster. It draws our face downward which is exceedingly unattractive."

She turned forward again and Sherlock pushed her toward the bedroom for her to have a look.

"I have to hand it to you, Sherlock, you really have done a wonderful job in fixing up my room," she smirked, slyly. "I've had a boy in my new bedroom already. I'd say lucky me, but I wasn't there.

"And I've had a woman in my room for the past week or so," he shot back, wheeling her out and toward the front door. "And an attractive one, I'll admit."

Quennel's eyes widened as she felt a blush come to her cheeks, but said nothing as he wheeled her out of the flat and took the keys to shut and lock the door.

"I…I thought this was my flat?" she wondered with a frown as she looked up at him in confusion.

"It is," he nodded. "And these are your keys. You'll stay here after we move the rest of your belongings here."

"Oh," she murmured as he handed her keys to her and she took them to hold them in her lap. He pushed her toward the door, making her frown, "Shouldn't we say good night to Mrs. Turner?"

"You'll see her tomorrow," he replied, pushing her toward the front door. "You'll be supervising over your things."

"Oh," she murmured before turning ahead again and letting him push her toward 221. She couldn't think about much else but the fact that he'd just admitted she was attractive.

Sherlock stopped in front of his building and stepped around her to hold his arm out, letting her grasp it with her good hand as he helped her up from the chair. Quennel felt her injured leg jolt with pain, making her stumble and ram into Sherlock, her face burying into his scarf as he gave a grunt, his other arm wrapping around her waist to hold her close, out of reflex, to keep her from falling.

"Sorry!" she blurted, pulling back enough to look up at him, her heart leaping into her throat when she realized how close they were…and that he had his arm around her waist. Their eyes met and she felt her breath come in shallow as her cheeks stained red and she was sure his keen hearing caught the sound of her heart pounding in her chest before she glanced away to sputter, "My…My stupid leg."

"It's alright, Miss Yule," he replied, still looking at her before leaning down to sweep her off he feet, making her squeak in surprise and throw her good arm around his neck. "Thinking back, we should've brought your cane after all."

"What about the chair?" she asked as he walked her through the door, sparing a glance to it before shrugging.

"The person I rented it from will get it," he replied, marching up the stairs. "I gave him an approximation of the time we'd be back here."

"Sherlock, I can walk perfectly fine if you just lend me your arm," she insisted as they reached the top of the stairs.

"I'm afraid your objection has come too late, Quennel," he replied, as he stepped into the flat.

"What I meant to say was, your attentiveness is scaring me," she shot back, playfully, trying to calm her nerves and hoping he didn't notice her trembling, which he probably did.

"Yes, well, John did tell me to go against my own judgment on what to do tonight," he explained as he rounded into the hall from the darkened lounge. "If I felt compelled to say something, don't say it, and if I felt an abhorrence to do something, do it."

"He told you not to be yourself?" she frowned as he set her on the mattress of his bed and striped off his coat as she watched him.

"Yes, he did," he nodded, pulling off his scarf to hang it up with his coat.

"But…the way you are is just fine," Quennel replied, making him stop and look to her with widened eyes. "I sought you out for your brilliance and your ability to see through the façade and your bluntness. I…wouldn't change that. And in any case you seemed to be in full form tonight."

"I was…holding back…a bit," he replied, unbuttoning and pulling off his suit jacket to hang it up before approaching her and holding a hand toward her. "Shall I help you with your coat?"

She smiled and nodded as she took his hand to help her stand, his other hand unbuttoning her coat as she balanced on her good leg, watching him, closely. She took in a sharp breath when his arm slid around her waist to hold her up as he pushed the coat from her shoulders, taking it in his free hand before lowering her to the mattress to sit. He turned to hang up her coat as she watched him, trying to slow her racing heart, but she was shaking again.

"Will you be needing help with your dress?" he asked, making her swallow hard before realizing she might, since Mrs. Hudson had helped her _into_ the dress.

"I, uh…I think I can manage," she muttered, making him nod and turn his back as he began unbuttoning his shirt. She glanced around, looking for her pajamas before she noticed them folded up at the foot of the bed. She smiled, realizing John must've pulled them out for her after they left before reaching out and dragging them closer before detaching the sling from her arm and maneuvering the sleeves of her dress down her shoulders to begin changing.

"John told me you had an episode earlier today," Sherlock reported, making her look up at him in time to see his back, flawless, sculpted perfectly and pale as he pulled his shirt off and tossed it toward the laundry basket. When she saw his hand move to his belt she shot her gaze down to concentrate on undressing herself, her cheeks aflame.

"Yes?" she prompted as she pushed the bodice down to her waist. "Was there a question after that statement?"

"Only a theory," he replied and she glanced up in time to see him about to shove his trousers down but looked away before she could see it as she maneuvered herself out of her dress as it pooled at her ankles, slipping her feet out of her shoes before grabbing her pajamas…only to find it was one of her flowy nightgowns.

"And that would be?" she ground out, irritated with John for choosing one of her sexier nightgowns, instigating after he'd already gone to bed.

Sherlock frowned and was about to turn around but froze as he asked, "Something wrong?"

"What?" she frowned up at his back as his head twitched slightly as if about to turn again but stopped short.

"You sounded agitated," he replied.

"Oh," she blurted, pulling her gown into her lap before muttering, "Not with you. Tell me your theory about my PTSD is."

"You won't take my brother's offer at a flat and a job because you're afraid to be alone," Sherlock replied, pulling on his pajamas just as she had pulled her gown on over her head and stared at his back with wide eyes before her expression dropped when he added, "Might I suggest you acquire a dog? A cat, perhaps?"

"If I do, I'm naming him Sherlock," she smirked, carefully standing to let the gown's hem fall from her waist to her knees.

"Cat or dog?" he asked, pulling his pajama shirt on and turning back to her as he began buttoning it.

"Maybe a cat," she smiled, sitting again. "You're very catlike. Could you get my bag for me so I can remove my eyeliner?"

Sherlock nodded as he grabbed her suitcase and set it next to her on the mattress to rummage through it and hand her a bag of wipes that had the words 'Makeup remover' on it. She took it, their fingers brushing against the other's and making her look up at his face as he only stared at the thing he handed her. She looked away and swallowed before pulling the bag out of his hand.

"Thank you," she murmured but frowned when he only sealed her suitcase and set it on the floor again and she noticed something. "I…didn't think you even wore those pajamas. I saw them, but they looked…unused."

"When the mood strikes me," he explained, heading for the door and making her frown in wonder but she said nothing as she wiped up her face. He returned with her cane and set it next to her, making her smile in thanks and he was about to leave again when she reached out with her good hand to grip his sleeve. He frowned down at her as she only smiled up at him before saying, "I had a lovely time tonight, Sherlock. It was very wonderful. Thank you. You have sufficiently made up for tricking me into Mycroft's party."

He gave a nod as she let go of his sleeve and made his way to his closet, pulling out a dressing gown and pulling it on before marching out the door. She guessed he was going to think or something and decided to turn in. She grabbed her bag of toiletries and her cane before hobbling into the bathroom to go through her nightly routine. She sighed as she made her way back to the bedroom and pulled back the covers on the bed to sit before flopping back onto the mattress.

The sounds of Sherlock's violin caught her ear and she smiled as she curled up as much as she could with her hurt hand and leg, enjoying the tune he was playing. It sounded like Mozart. She didn't want to fall asleep, but she could feel herself drifting off, happily tired from the day she'd had. Her last thought before she fell asleep completely was regret that she hadn't kissed Sherlock to properly thank him for the wonderful night.

It wasn't long before she was asleep and Sherlock finished the piece and made his way back into the bedroom. He watched her for moment, noting that her breathing had slowed in sleep. He stepped closer to watch her eyes moving under her eyelids as she dreamed. His eyes scanned her face slowly, noticing everything.

The slight twitch of her cheek, the way her nostrils flared, only very slightly, the way her lips parted as she slept. He licked his lips as his eyes lingered on her mouth, her lips slightly stained red from the lipstick she'd worn and wiping it off. He found himself wondering what it would be like to kiss her. Then he wondered why he was even considering that.

He snarled, quietly and stood to move around to the other side of the bed to lie down. He heard her give a small gasp when he flopped back onto the bed, waking her. He frowned at her when she shot up, then shouted in pain at her leg and her hand, but she scrambled back against the wall, her gaze shooting around the room, despite her pain.

"Sherlock!" she shouted, making him sit up as he still watched her, carefully, her breathing heavy, her eyes wide in panic. "Sherlock! _Sherlock_!"

"I'm…here, Quennel," he assured her, shuffling toward her as he realized she was having another panic attack.

She grabbed at him, pulling closer by his collar and he gripped the wrist of her injured hand to keep her from using it. The nails of her uninjured hand dug into his shoulder as her confused and panicked eyes looked right through him.

"Don't let them take me!" she pleaded, shaking her head, violently. "Sherlock, don't let them!"

"Quennel, you are safe," he told her, lifting his hands to grip her head and keep her gaze locked with his, his voice low and firm. "You're on Baker Street, Miss Yule. Now breathe normally."

Quennel swallowed as she came out of her confusion, taking in deep breaths to try calming her heart. She jerked with a sob before throwing her arms around his neck, making him freeze in surprise as she only sobbed into his shoulder.

"Sherlock?!" John called from the hall, rushing into the room and Sherlock looked up at him as he stared wide eyes at them. "Is she alright?"

"Panic attack," Sherlock replied, hesitantly wrapping an arm around her as she continued sobbing. "I jostled the bed while she slept. I have this in hand, John."

"Yes, you do," John couldn't help but smirk, making Sherlock glare back at him before the doctor stepped out of the room and back to bed.

"I'm sorry," she shuddered, finally pulling back to look up at him, tears staining her cheeks, her eyes red from crying as she lowered her arms from around him to use her uninjured hand to wipe her tears away. "This…happened earlier, but it wasn't like this. I just panicked…a bit. It's getting worse, isn't it?"

"Different triggers have different reactions," he explained. "You were asleep, and I woke you, you were startled. This doesn't mean you're getting better or worse."

She nodded in understanding before meeting his gaze and she suddenly realized his arms were around her, her hand resting on his arm, and her eyes met his.

"I'm…I'm sorry," she murmured. "Did I…? I didn't mean to…scare you."

"I wasn't frightened," he replied. "Somewhat confused, until I realized you were having a panic attack. Are you alright, now?"

She nodded and he moved to release her but she kept a firm hold on his shoulder, making him frown at her in wonder as she met his gaze before she murmured, "I know this isn't your sort of thing, but…when I was in the hospital you held my hand while I slept. Could you…do that again, for me?"

Sherlock watched her for a moment before nodding and Quennel smiled before leaning closer to him and pressing a kiss to his cheek. He noted that this kiss lingered, unlike the first she'd given him from the cab earlier that day. When she pulled back she began to shuffle back to lay down and he did the same. She shifted as close as possible to him, laying on her left side with her arm up under the pillow, her right laying between them. He shifted onto his side as well and reached up to take her hand in his, making her smile, sweetly.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"I don't plan on staying here all night," he warned her.

"I know," she nodded. "It's alright. Just…try not to move the bed when you get up again, yeah?"

"I will strive to keep the bed still," he replied, making her smile before she closed her eyes and snuggled into the pillow. "Sleep well, Miss Yule."

"You too, Mr. Holmes."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** we'll be getting back to the case soon, we needed fluff! well, as fluffy as Sherlock gets. so, Mrs. Turner was mentioned in A Study in Pink, so now i'm introducing her! reviews?


	17. The White Dragon

**A/N:** new chappie! enjoy!

* * *

><p><em><strong>Chapter 17: The White Dragon<strong>_

"Miss Yule," Sherlock called, softly as he stood next to the bed, pulling on his coat as he watched her stir against the pillow. "Miss Yule, wake up. We must leave."

"Where are we going?" Quennel groaned, lifting a hand to rub her eyes as Sherlock pulled on his scarf. "What time is it?"

"Five AM," he replied, popping his collar. "We are going to the Jones house. I must have a look at who may be coming and going."

"At five in the morning?" she groaned, rolling over and throwing the blanket over her head.

Sherlock sighed as he rolled his eyes and stepped toward her grab the sheets and yank them off her, making her squeak at the sudden burst of cold air.

"The game is on, Miss Yule," he reported, moving to the closet to rummage through her clothes, pulling out a blouse and a pair of jeans, tossing them onto the foot of the bed as she shifted to sit up, watching him. "The killer will have been there and gone if you don't hurry."

"Killer?" she frowned up at him as he grabbed a pair of flats for her and plopped them on the floor near the bed.

"Yes, I mean to find this man swiftly," he nodded, lifting her sling from the bedside table and set it in front of her. "I can help you dress if—"

"No," she breathed, her eyes wide as she stared at him and he gave a slight frown, noting there was a hidden meaning in her refusal. "I'm not going with you Sherlock. Go get John up. He's your partner in crime, after all."

"Yes, but I'll need your specific talents," he replied, making her frown at him. "And your resource, Mr. Calvin. He will know of this assassin, wouldn't he?"

"Well, he _might_, but—"

"Good," he nodded. "Now get dressed, or do you need my help?"

"I already told you, I'm _not_ going," she snapped, making him frown at her again. "_Now_ who's being obtuse? Are you actually going to make me say the words?"

"That you refuse to go with me because the last time you followed me to a crime scene you were taken prisoner and tortured?" he retorted with one raised brow, making her glare up at him as he gave a smug smirk. "Believe me, Miss Yule, I doubt an assassin would have anything he would need from either of us. If anything, he would merely put a bullet each in our heads."

"Well, _that's_ a relief," she shot back. "In future, Mr. Holmes, telling someone that has just been tortured that their recent adventure may 'merely' _kill_ them, is no incentive to get them to follow you along."

"If you will not come with me, you will only worsen your post-traumatic stress," he warned.

"Really, Sherlock?" she snapped, narrowing her eyes at him, sardonically as he pulled out his phone to glance at the time. "You're going to pull _that_ card? What's next? Actual begging, or is this the closest you get to it?"

"I'm going upstairs to wake John," he explained. "By the time I wake him and he is ready, either you will be ready to leave with us, or we'll leave you here."

"You say that like you know the answer to it already," she noted. "I told you, I'm not going."

Sherlock turned to sail out the door and head to John's room, calling back, "We'll see."

Quennel scoffed and looked to the clothes he'd set out for her. She noted they were easy to put on, seeing that he'd pulled out her lounging jeans and a t-shirt, rather than a blouse. She pursed her lips in irritation as she realized, though she knew she would have some kind of panic attack while there, she was intrigued.

A man shot from under his car, in his driveway by an assassin, and the man had no ties to criminal activity? Of course she was intrigued, just like Sherlock was.

Growling in agitation, she whipped the gown she wore off then grabbed the shirt, being careful of her injured hand as she found dressing getting easier and easier to do. She pulled the sling on, making sure her arm was secure before she went to pull on her jeans, slipping her flats on.

Sherlock was stepping into the doorway to check on her progress when she was using John's cane to get to the closet and grab a denim jacket. When she turned to the doorway, she tried pulling the jacket on, still walking with the cane, but once she got the sleeve on her uninjured arm, Sherlock leaned down and yanked the cane from her grasp.

"Sherlock—?!" she squeaked, stumbling forward into him and he used his free arm to steady her by her waist as she glared up at him. "What the blazes are you doing, taking that cane?! I need it, unless you're willing to _carry_ me the entire way!"

"You won't need it anymore," he assured her, standing her up on both feet.

"Look, I know this is what you did for John, but if you haven't noticed, I did _actually_ get stabbed in the leg," she retorted. "The stitches are _not_ psychosomatic."

"Yes, I realize that," he nodded, turning and heading back down the hall as John waiting for him, frowning at the detective when he saw him with the cane before he stopped and spun to face the door to his room. "Walk toward me, Quennel."

"Sherlock, do we have time for this?" John wondered. "You said—"

"Miss Yule will walk toward me, without the use of this cane, and we'll be on our way," Sherlock cut into John's comment. "It won't take long."

Quennel frowned at him, using her good arm to lean on the door frame before setting her jaw in determination.

He wanted her to walk, she would walk, if only to prove to him she wasn't the invalid, pitiful, woman he probably thought she was.

She shoved off the doorframe and took a step forward, wincing only when a slight bolt of pain shot through her thigh, but she wouldn't stop. She took another step, glaring at Sherlock the entire time, and soon, with each step she made down the hall, she was walking as smoothly as if she had no injury at all. She glared up at Sherlock, her lips pursed indignantly before she grabbed the cane from his hand as he smirked smugly at her.

"I won't need this anymore, John," she explained, handing the cane to him. "Thank you."

"Uh…cheers," John sputtered, shuffling to stow it away somewhere as she never took her glare from Sherlock.

"Shall we?" he prompted, lifting a hand to entreat her toward the door and she sailed past him, making his smirk widen as he followed, popping the collar of his coat up as John hurried after the two.

"Why are we headed there, again?" John asked.

"To catch the wife paying off the assassin," Sherlock replied as he helped Quennel down the stairs, seeing her struggle to get down them.

"You said it _wasn't_ the wife," she recalled.

"Of course it wasn't the wife," Sherlock retorted. "She's the middleman. Or middle_woman_ so to speak."

"Wait…what?" John frowned as they reached the end of the stairs and trailed into the street.

"The wife is being framed," Sherlock explained, heading down the street, too impatient to try looking for a cab just yet. "Lestrade already thinks it could be her, and has an officer watching her home. We have to get there before they try to arrest her when the killer goes to get his pay."

"Why is _she_ handing it over?" John frowned in confusion.

"So the real person that had him killed doesn't get their hands dirty," Quennel chimed in. "Mrs. Jones is the scapegoat."

"Precisely," Sherlock nodded.

"So…who _is_ the person who had him killed?" John frowned.

"Someone who would go through a lot of effort to keep his hands clean," Quennel guessed, making John shoot his gaze to Sherlock.

"Are you thinking—?"

"Possibly," Sherlock nodded, cutting into John's question and making Quennel frown between the two of them.

"What?" she questioned. "What are we supposed to be thinking?"

"Nothing you'll need to know about just yet, Miss Yule," Sherlock replied. "We must keep focus on the task at hand. We are meeting Lestrade at the victim's house to keep him from arresting the wrong person for now. And Quennel will question the wife."

"Oh, will I?" she scoffed. "And here I thought you had brought me along for my sparkling personality. You just wanted me with you to _use_ me!"

"Well, if you're going to come along with me you have to be useful," Sherlock shrugged, making John bow his head into his hand. "Your skills at questioning will be useful when we speak to her to finally have the truth out of her."

"Do you have the capacity of knowing how offended I probably am right now, Mr. Holmes?" Quennel shot back.

"Judging by the venomous tone you used just now when saying my name, Miss Yule? Yes, I can deduce just how much I've offended you. We have more important matters to tend to at the moment, however. And I was not lying when I explained my intention of curing your post-traumatic stress. What's that saying? I was attempting to 'kill two birds with one stone.'"

"Sherlock!" John snapped in outrage.

"It's alright, John," Quennel sighed. "He wouldn't be Sherlock if he didn't admit his true intentions. Very well, Mr. Holmes. I'll interview the victim's wife, but I have some terms that will be met if I am to be working with you from now on.

"That made Sherlock stop and whirl on her, and John frowned up at him as Quennel only looked at him expectantly.

"I made no offer to work with us," he recalled.

"No, it was implied," she retorted, making him frown at her. "You've managed to find a flat for me right next to the building _you_ live in, encouraged me to take your brother's offer of employment, apparently for my protection. If you want me protected, I should just stay by your side, solve crimes with you and earn my wages that way. We can split the wages evenly, three ways, or if you prefer to give me less of the share, I don't mind, as long as I can pay my rent and get by. If I need to, I'll help out Molly part-time."

"Miss Yule, I did _not_ offer you employment," he ground out in irritation.

"No, but as I don't take charity, I've chosen my employment for myself," she smiled. "I'm compromising, Mr. Holmes. Instead of working for Mr. Holmes the elder, I'll work _with_ Mr. Holmes the younger. This should be far more fun, don't you think? Now, let's get to the house before Lestrade arrests that poor woman."

Sherlock stared at her with wide eyes as she passed him to head down the streets before he turned his stare to John who was trying to keep himself from bursting into laughter. He growled, softly before turning and marching after Quennel, easily catching up with her and matching her slower pace.

"Miss Yule, I strongly suggest you reconsider—"

"Why?" she cut in with a smirk. "Worried I might trip you up somehow, Mr. Holmes?"

"Trip me up?" he frowned in wonder.

"Oh, don't start playing coy _now_, Sherlock," she smirked, turning on him and making him stop as he still frowned down at her. She lifted a hand to play with the tassels of his scarf before sliding her hand beneath it, his coat and jacket and smoothing a hand over his heart, smirking, "Not when you were doing such a fine job with dinner and paying me compliments. Not to mention the way you were urging to see my dress during dinner. You may have deduced that _I'm_ attracted to you, but you're not the only one who's been making observations. For instance…"

She spread her fingers over his chest, feeling his heart thumping against it and grinning, widely.

"Your heartbeat's quickened, and even in this low light I can see your eyes dilating. Don't try to deny it, Sherlock. Part of my former occupation was reading body language and reporting the implications of it. I got pretty good at it before being sacked. So, shall we press on and discuss this later? After all…you wished us to focus."

She smiled and slid her hand away from his chest before turning and heading down the street again, John following after her, passing a very frozen, very shocked Sherlock, snapping the detective out of his daze and allowing him to head after the two.

"I am _finished_ walking," she sighed, looking around and raising a hand when she spotted a cab coming down the street. "Taxi!"

The cab stopped and the three piled in as John gave him the address they were heading for as she sat between the two men.

"So, how'd you like your new flat?" John asked Quennel, who turned to him with a smile.

"Oh, it's lovely, John," she nodded. "Thank you."

Sherlock shot a wide-eyed stare of disbelief at her over the top of John's head and recalled, "You were enraged we moved your things there, and did not like the way we arranged them."

"Well, of _course_ I would tell _you_ that, wouldn't I?" she shot back. "I honestly do like it. Though I'm not sure I'm comfortable with the proximity I'll have to Mr. Holmes."

"I _can_ hear you," Sherlock told her.

"I _am_ aware," she shot back, making John smirk, trying to hold back his chuckles at the two.

"Anyway," he chirped, "glad you're happy with it. Mrs. Turner's a lovely lady. She'll probably take care of you till you've recovered."

"Ah, that reminds me, I have to go to hospital for my check-up tomorrow," she recalled, then leaned over to look at the brooding Sherlock as he stared out the window. "Care to escort me, Mr. Holmes?"

"If you can stand being in my presence a moment longer, Miss Yule, then, yes, I will," he retorted, making her smirk as the cab came to a stop and they all bailed out, Sherlock tossing a bill to the cabby. "This way."

He led them to the car parked on the opposite end of the street in front of the victim's home, and Quennel smirked to see Lestrade in the driver's seat, his head lulled back as he snored, softly.

"Let me wake him, please?" Quennel begged rushing as fast as she could with her injuries toward the open window. "Hello, Greg!"

Lestrade jumped with a shout, his eyes shooting open as they darted between her, and Sherlock and John as they approached.

"The bloody hell are _you_ doing here?!" he snapped.

"Well there's a fine hello," Quennel muttered.

"We're here to stop you arresting the wrong person," John explained, making the detective inspector frown in wonder.

"You what?" he retorted.

"You heard him right, Lestrade," Sherlock chimed in as Quennel turned to watch the house while they had their discussion. "Mrs. Jones is a woman with no choice but to do as the _true_ culprit tells her."

"And you happen to know who that true culprit is then, eh?" Lestrade shot back.

"He's working on it," John replied.

"Lads, behind the car," Quennel suggested, doing so herself.

The men frowned at her in wonder before looking down the street to see a car approaching and John and Sherlock hurried around the car to hide behind it while Lestrade sunk deep into his seat, watching out the window. The car pulled into the driveway of the Jones house as they all watched him make him climb out and make his way to the door, knock and wait. When the door opened to reveal Mrs. Jones with a silver briefcase, which she handed to the man.

"How is _that_ not guilty?!" Lestrade whispered, harshly.

"You honestly think a woman with her taste would have a briefcase like that?" Quennel asked Lestrade.

"Hold off, Detective Inspector," Sherlock advised as they watched the man saunter back to his car.

"He's getting away!" Lestrade growled, watching the man climb into his car and begin pulling out of the drive.

"Follow him," Sherlock ordered. "John go with him. Keep me informed."

Lestrade sat up in the driver's seat, starting the engine as John climbed into the seat next to him.

"What are _you_ gonna do?" Lestrade asked Sherlock.

"Miss Yule will be interviewing the wife," he reported. "Go, before you lose him!"

Lestrade sped off as Sherlock helped Quennel to her feet, offering his arm which she took before he led her toward the house.

"So, what makes you think she'll know who it is she's 'working' for?" Quennel wondered as they crossed the street, pulling her phone from her pocket to tuck it into her sling, settled in her hand, hidden from view and there in case she had to make an emergency call.

"Because, unless he used someone _else_ to speak with her, he'll have given her the tasks himself," he replied as they reached the door and he knocked. "Why have you arranged your mobile there?"

"Just in case," she shrugged. "Let me do the talking, yeah? You tend to rub people the wrong way."

"So I've been told," he retorted, making her give a small giggle before she looked to the door when it opened. Mrs. Jones was a tall, lithe brunette with full lips and wide, bright blue eyes, with freckles scattered over her cheek and nose. Quennel felt she had to apologize for her shortness and inferior beauty, but when she smiled and opened her mouth to speak, the door was slammed shut in their face, and she hadn't failed to notice she had seen Sherlock first, making her turn to him with a glare. "What did you do?"

"I did what I always do," he shrugged.

"Yeah, that's what I was afraid of," she sighed before knocking on the door again. "Mrs. Jones, I know this is an upsetting time for you and whatever Mr. Holmes said to you on his last visit, I whole-heartedly apologize for it." She glanced at Sherlock and he seemed to read her gaze as he nodded. "We just saw a man leave here, and we know you paid him off, but we _also_ know it's not your money. We know you're innocent, Wendy."

She chewed on her lower lip as they both waited, Sherlock listening closely to what was going on inside. A crash made Quennel jump and frown up at Sherlock as he only pushed past her to try the knob, but the door was locked.

"Stand back," he told her, and she moved back to give him room as he rammed the door, making it easily fly open and he rushed in, followed by Quennel. The furniture was askew, a glass lay broken on the tile floor nearer the kitchen. "He's still here."

A scream came from down the hall, and they both hurried that way, Quennel wincing slightly from the pain in her leg, but she kept it to herself as her adrenaline kicked in. They rushed toward the slightly open door at the end of the hall, and when they stepped in, they both froze at the sight a tall man in black fatigues and spiked blonde hair pointing a gun at Mrs. Jones as she knelt next to the bed, shaking with sobs.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes," he smirked in a German slant as he turned his blue gaze to the two of them, his gun remaining aimed at Wendy's head. "How nice of you to join us."

"Bloody hell," Quennel breathed, making Sherlock frown as he glanced at her, but he said nothing as she stared at the man with huge eyes. "White Dragon."

"Lovely to meet a fan," he smirked.

"Mercenary," Quennel explained to Sherlock. "That man that took the money is a decoy. He knew Lestrade was out there the entire time."

"The Detective Inspector is not very covert," the German chuckled before grabbing a hold of Wendy's hair and hauling her to her feet, making her scream and struggle to be freed, but he shoved the gun to the side of her head as he stood her up.

"How dull," Sherlock sighed, making Quennel frown up at him incredulously, but he only continued. "You're cleverer than this. You've proven that by this entire display. Which is why you're not going to kill her."

"It seems _someone_ doesn't know who I am," he smirked.

"Oh, I know exactly who you are," Sherlock replied, pulling his hands behind his back and straightening. "The assassin known as the White Dragon. Real name, Elstan Xaunder. Said to be responsible for the assassination of several political figures in your Fatherland."

"I heard about that," Quennel nodded. "They were all killed at the same time…in several different places."

"Brilliantly executed, but I'd like to ask just one question, if I may," Sherlock replied, making Xaunder frown at him in wonder and Quennel looked up at Sherlock, noting the look in his eyes. "Who's your employer?"

"Oh, you honestly think I will tell you?" Xaunder chuckled.

"You might…under interrogation," Sherlock smirked, making Xaunder frown again.

"Police!" Lestrade shouted, rounding into the room as Sherlock stepped aside, the detective inspector aiming his gun at Xaunder. "Let her go, drop the weapon and put your hands up!"

Xaunder looked to the window as sirens sounded outside when a few police cars pulled up to surround the house. He looked back at them and shoved Wendy away, making her stumble away as he lifted his hands and dropped the gun. Lestrade holstered his own and marched toward him, grabbing his cuffs before shoving Xaunder to his knees to cuff him.

As Lestrade told him why he was under arrest, Sherlock noticed a faint smirk over his lips while Quennel stepped toward Wendy to make sure she was alright. Lestrade pulled Xaunder up to his feet as he and Sherlock glared at each other, but when he was being pushed past him and out of the room, Xaunder stopped in front of Sherlock.

"How did you alert the police without my knowledge?" Xaunder smirked, evilly.

Sherlock scoffed and turned to Quennel who was looking at them with wide eyes before smirking herself and reaching into her sling with her good hand to pull out her phone.

"Doesn't hurt much to use a touch screen to call someone on your speed dial," she smirked, making Xaunder scoff and look to Sherlock.

"Clever, isn't she?" he smirked before Lestrade shoved him forward, making Sherlock frown and look to Quennel again.

There was something in his tone when he'd said that. Something that made him think he was missing something.

He didn't have any more time to think about it when John rushed in, his gaze darting between everyone as he hoped, "Everyone alright?"

"Mrs. Jones should be seen to," Quennel suggested, stepping away from her as John rushed toward her, eager to find out what she needed. Quennel stepped toward Sherlock, frowning when she saw the look in his eyes. He was trying to evaluate her again.

"Sherlock?" she called, warily. "You alright?"

His gaze met hers and he lifted his chin before giving a nod and turning to march out the door, making her frown deepen as she followed him.

"Where are you going?" she called.

"Catching a ride to Scotland Yard in one of the police cars," he replied as he went out the front door. "Coming along?"

"Only if I'm _needed_," she smirked back as they reached the cars on the street, then groaned and rolled her eyes as Donavan stood with Lestrade, speaking with him, turning to them as they approached.

"Should've known the Freak was the one who got you in trouble," Donavan told Lestrade.

"Sally, can you get by one day without being such an ignorant b—?"

"Mind if we hitch a ride with one of your cars, Lestrade?" Sherlock cut into Quennel's agitated comment. "I'd like to be there when you interrogate him."

"What for? You solved the case," Lestrade frowned.

"I think there is something more to this," Sherlock admitted, looking to Xaunder sitting in the back seat of the car they were standing next to. "This was too easy."

"It would be for you, wouldn't it?" Donavan shot back before looking to Lestrade. "He's just _looking_ for trouble, Inspector."

"Maybe, but his gut instinct hasn't let me down yet," Lestrade replied before nodding to Sherlock. "Alright, you can come."

"Please, do not refer to my logic as a 'gut instinct," Sherlock sneered. "You're demeaning my intellect and I do _not_ appreciate it."

Quennel gave a small chuckle before following Sherlock when he made his way to a police care. They said nothing as they climbed in, waiting for the officer driving to get in and follow Lestrade to Scotland Yard. She looked to him as he stared out the window, and she knew he was staring through the still scenery to think.

"You knew who he was," he suddenly spoke up, making her jump and look at him with wide eyes.

"What?" she frowned.

"You knew who he was," he said again, looking to her as she met his gaze. "How does a former up-and-coming reporter for the BBC know of the White Dragon?"

Quennel gave a small shrug before looking away to reply, "My man Calvin told me about him. He was bragging to me one night about a new software system he'd had installed and telling me all the big names to watch out for. Sent me a few pictures. He was a bit…drunk at the time."

"Convenient, I think," he replied, making her frown at him in wonder.

"Sorry?"

"I said it's convenient."

"What is?"

"He knew you. And that leads me to believe that _you_ know him."

"Sherlock Holmes, are you honestly insinuating that I am in league with Elstan Xaunder? What on god's green Earth would pull that deduction from you?"

"The way he looked at you, Miss Yule, and the way he referred to your intellect." He leaned closer to her, making her frown slightly as she pressed her back into the car door, his gaze boring into hers. "I'll only ask you once, and if you're not honest with me, you'll regret it. Do you know him?"

"You think I'd have dialed the police if I was working with him?" Quennel snarled as his eyes scanned over her face. "Bloody hell, Sherlock, maybe Donavan's right. You just like causing trouble. You set me up with a flat, a job, and you make think that you—" She cut herself off to swallow back her words before snapping, "And then you accuse me of being an assassin's accomplice?! If you don't want me coming along with you then just _tell_ me."

She shoved the door open and climbed out, slamming it shut behind her before marching to the house, meeting John at the door as Sherlock watched her from his seat. No doubt she was telling him she would be taking a cab back to the flat instead of going with him to Scotland Yard. Now, perhaps, he could get more out of Elstan Xaunder about her during the interrogation.

"Everything alright?" John wondered, watching the car Sherlock sat drive away, Quennel approaching him.

"Fine," she sighed. "Just Sherlock being…Sherlock. How's Wendy?"

"Better," John nodded. "She's talking with Donavan while Lestrade takes the assassin to Scotland Yard."

"Sherlock's going to join the interrogation," Quennel reported, then sighed, "I need to get back. Sherlock's having the rest of my things moved to m new flat, and I have to supervise."

"Right," he nodded. "I'll get you back, then. I doubt they need my help anymore."

"Thanks, John," she smiled, warmly as he offered her his arm to walk her back to the street toward the main road. "You don't have to stay with me if you'd rather go with Sherlock to the interrogation."

"You might need help," he shrugged. "I'd rather be of help than useless. I'll call us a cab when we get to the main road."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **reviews?


	18. Unexpected Attraction

**A/N:** new chappie! enjoy!

* * *

><p><em><strong>Chapter 18: Unexpected Attraction<strong>_

Sherlock watched on the other side of the mirror he was hiding behind as Lestrade questioned Elstan Xaunder. The White Dragon had yet to speak since he'd been brought into Scotland Yard for interrogation. Lestrade had ordered Sherlock only to observe, making Sherlock sneer, but he complied. The detective inspector would soon realize the need for Sherlock.

Lestrade sighed, leaning back in his chair, staring at Xaunder who still said nothing, his hands cuffed to a restraint bar on the table.

"I've got all day, Elstan," Lestrade shrugged. "Just make it easy on yourself and confess. We already have the man you hired to pick up the money from Mrs. Jones, and _she_ pointed to _you_ as the man that assassinated her husband."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the DI's approach to the interrogation. If it were him, he would not shown his hand at all, but his interest was piqued when Xaunder straightened and sat forward and finally responded.

"I'll only speak to Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock smirked as Lestrade slumped and glared at the mirror before sighing and standing to head for the door, stepping out of the room and toward the smaller room where Sherlock was.

"Five minutes," he told Sherlock who made a graceful turn and swooped around Lestrade to enter the interrogation room.

Sherlock eyed Xaunder as Lestrade observed them from the other side of the mirror, and the consulting detective shut the door before sitting in front of Xaunder, their gazes never wavering from the other's. Sherlock set his gloved hands on the table in front of him, clasping them together as his eyes darted from one thing to the next on Xaunder, noticing everything.

"You wanted to see me," Sherlock stated, his eyes narrowing at the man before him. "Am I the one to hear your confession?"

"You have all the evidence you need against me," Xaunder shrugged. "It doesn't matter if I confess."

"Then why did you ask me here?" Sherlock nearly sneered, making Xaunder scoff.

"So that you can do what you do best, Mr. Holmes," he smirked. "I'll give up the murder weapon after you deduce what you can about me."

"I'm not here for trade," Sherlock retorted.

"No, you're here because I asked for you, and this is why. You honestly think that detective inspector knows anything about me from my file? It's why you're here."

"I am here because you made a remark about Miss Yule that I would like you to explain."

Xaunder's smirk widened as Sherlock ignored the tap on the mirror that Lestrade was standing behind.

"If you deduce me, you'll know why I said it," Xaunder smirked.

Sherlock glared at him before he thought of everything he'd already observed, and when it hit him. The way he spoke. His English was impeccable for a foreigner, with only a hint of an accent revealing that he was German.

"You went to Oxford with her," he finally realized.

"I doubt she'd remember me," Xaunder shrugged. "But I certainly remember her. I recognized her the moment I saw her."

"Your clothes are recently laundered," Sherlock countered, eager to get off the subject of Quennel for now. He didn't like the tone or the look in his eye when he spoke of her. "I found fibers from that very jumper you're wearing under the victim's car. I just have one question for you."

"And what would that be?"

"What did you do with the dog?"

Xaunder frowned in confusion.

"Dog?" he echoed.

"Yes, the dog," Sherlock nodded. "The German Shepherd belonging to Mr. and Mrs. Jones. He took the dog with him under the pretense that he was taking the animal to the vet for whatever reason and went to see his mistress instead. You followed him there, estimated, accurately, what time he would return home and used the oil stains on the driveway of his house to gauge where you should lie when he returned home. Lucky for you his car sat high enough that he drove over you without leaving a scratch, and allowing you enough room to raise the M16 you murdered him with, and fired. The sound, very similar to a car backfiring, roused Mrs. Jones and she hurried out to find her husband, dead in his car. When she ran back into the house to call the police, you followed her and threatened her life. You made a call to your diversion, asking him to pick up your money for you while you took care of the loose end that was Mrs. Jones.

"However, the German Shepherd…" Sherlock leaned forward on the table, murmuring, "What became of it?"

"There was no dog."

Sherlock frowned, blurting, "What?"

"There was no dog in the car with him when he arrived home."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed in thought before he stood, Xaunder watching him as he raised the collar on his coat and turned to march toward the door.

"Oh, by the way," Xaunder called, making Sherlock stop, but he didn't turn from the door, his hand on the handle. "Moriarty sends his love."

Sherlock whirled around to stare at him with wide eyes, but Lestrade came in through the door now behind him with two other officers.

"Alright, lads, take him back to his cell," Lestrade ordered the officers who approached Xaunder to uncuff him from the table.

"Wait," Sherlock called, but they didn't listen to him as Lestrade took Sherlock's arm to lead him out of the room. "Wait, Lestrade, let me go! Did you hear what he said?!"

"Sherlock, come on," Lestrade insisted, pulling him out of the room and toward his office.

"Lestrade, let me go!" Sherlock snapped, yanking his arm from the DI's grip, but Lestrade stepped closer to him, meeting his gaze.

"We'll talk about this in my office.

"Lestrade rounded Sherlock, making the consulting detective frown before he followed him toward his office and stepped through the door, closing it behind him.

"So this is another one of Moriarty's, is it?" Lestrade questioned as he paced behind his desk, Sherlock centering himself in the room.

"We have to find the dog," he told him, making Lestrade halt and turn a confused frown to Sherlock.

"Ey?" Lestrade blurted before leaning forward on his desk. "Forget about the dog! If Moriarty is back, you need to get on it. No one else could find him but you!"

"If he is back, I'm sure he wouldn't waste any time making his grand entrance," Sherlock retorted. "You must find the Jones' dog. Start with the mistress."

He turned to head out of the office.

"But what about Moriarty?" Lestrade snapped as Sherlock sauntered out the door. "And where are you going?!"

"To make an apology," he muttered, heading for the door.

* * *

><p><em>223 A Baker Street...<em>

"Where do you want these books?" John groaned under the strain of a box he carried through the door as Quennel started emptying a box filled with dishware in the kitchen. She couldn't help but giggle at the way he waddled through the doorway before turning back to her task.

"Leave it in the bedroom," Quennel called. "I'll empty it myself."

"Quennel!"

"Yes, Mrs. Turner?" Quennel called back, leaning on the counter with one hand as she began putting the dishware away.

"I've brought some sweeties for you and Dr. Watson," Mrs. Turner called as she stepped in with a plate piled high with cookies.

"Is that what that gorgeous smell was?" John smiled, stepping out of the bedroom and dusting his hands before taking a cookie from the plate. "Thank you very much, Mrs. Turner."

"You're welcome, Doctor," Mrs. Turner smiled, heading for Quennel in the kitchen.

"Call me John, please," he insisted, heading for the door again to get another box and bring it inside. "These cookies are delicious!"

"Oi! You've got your own landlady! Leave mine alone!" Quennel called through a smirk as Mrs. Turner giggled when she approached. Quennel took a cookie from the plate with a grin, adding, "Thank you, Mrs. Turner. Sorry, I don't have any milk, yet."

"Oh, about that, I'm afraid I went and spilled the beans about you to the rest of the tenants, and…well, the boys wanted to help," Mrs. Turner confessed, making Quennel frown in wonder.

"The boys?" she echoed. "What boys?"

"Hello!" an unfamiliar Scottish accented voice called from the doorway just as John stepped through with another box labeled 'Blankets' and the two women turned to the doorway to see a tall, broad-shouldered man with bright blue eyes, trendy brown hair and a chiseled jawline, carrying a brown paper bag in his arms.

"Oh, Andy, I told you not to!" Mrs. Turner scolded, catching his attention and making him give a devastatingly handsome grin as he approached them.

"Well, we wouldn't be good neighbors if we didn't help her out a bit," he smiled, setting the bag down on the counter on the other side of Quennel who frowned at him in absolute confusion while he emptied it. "Some groceries for you, Miss Quennel."

"Uh…thanks…whoever you are," Quennel replied, looking over the bag of apples he set on her counter.

"Oh! Right, sorry," he smiled, turning toward her and holding a hand out to her with a charming grin. "Lysander Wright. Everybody calls me Andy. Parents were huge Shakespeare fans, and mom couldn't resist naming me after her favorite character in _A Midsummer Night' Dream_."

"That's a bit of a mouthful, can I just introduce you as my neighbor Andy?" Quennel smirked, shaking his hand and making him laugh heartily.

"Andy!"

They all jumped and looked to the door to see a pair of scrawny legs sprouting under two brown paper bags and two scrawny arms wrapped around them.

"Help!" the Scottish accent called again and Andy hurried toward the door to take one of the bags from the lanky man, revealing a handsome freckled faced with huge brown eyes and wild brown hair.

"Sorry, sweetie," Andy smiled, apologetically as they both made their way to the kitchen. "Quennel, this is my husband, William Zimmerman."

"Hello, Miss Yule," William smiled, brightly, holding out a slenderly fingered hand and shaking hers, vigorously.

"Call me Quennel, please," she smiled as Mrs. Turner and Andy began putting the cold things in the refrigerator. "Thank you, both for the groceries. You really didn't have to."

"No trouble at all, lass," William grinned, setting the bag he held on the counter. "Mrs. Turner mentioned your situation and Andy could _not_ be persuaded to stay away."

"You were just as eager to meet our new neighbor too, Will," Andy retorted.

"Well, I think I got all the boxes in," John announced, heading toward the four to snag another cookie from the plate Mrs. Turner had set down. "Need any more help, Quennel?"

"I think I'm alright, John, thank you," she smiled, beckoning him closer and introducing him. "Andy, Will, this is Doctor John Watson. His flatmate's brother found this place for me, and he's a recent and wonderful friend."

"Oh! You're Sherlock's flatmate!" Andy grinned, shaking John's hand with a knowing wink. "I knew he was batting for our team, so to speak."

"I'm _not_ gay," John insisted, making Quennel chuckle as the rest of them frowned. "And neither is Sherlock! He took Quennel out twice already, and stayed with her in the hospital when she was hurt. He refused to leave!"

"Ooh, Sherlock and Nelly, sittin' in a tree!" Andy grinned, ruffling Quennel's hair and making her swat him away playfully.

"My dear, that's wonderful!" Mrs. Turner grinned.

"Now, wait a minute," Quennel urged. "This doesn't mean Mr. Holmes and I aren't what you would call an item."

"Then what _does_ it mean?" John frowned, making her glance between all of their expectant glazes before sighing in defeat.

"Right, listen, I can only speak for myself," she admitted. "That being said, _I _am attracted to him, and that is _all_ I can say for sure."

"You just need to make a bit more of an effort," Will advised, making her look to him in astonishment. "We've met him. He's the type that needs to be impressed by having his socks knocked off."

"Oi, she's been trying," John told them, making Quennel roll her eyes and bow her head into her good hand. "You should've seen the dress she wore last night."

"John…stop," Quennel requested in despair.

"Yes, John, stop."All eyes turned to the doorway to see Sherlock Holmes saunter in, his eyes looking over the mess of boxes before looking to the group in the kitchen who stared at him like deer in the headlights.

"Ears burning, lad?" William couldn't help but smirk, making Sherlock raise a brow at him. He cleared his throat before looking to Andy and nodding toward the door then turned to Quennel. "Well, Quennel, it was lovely meeting you, and maybe when you're settled in and healed up, we can help you with a flat-warming party, eh?"

"That sounds very nice, Will, thank you," Quennel nodded with a smile as they made their way to the door.

"We're in flat B if you need us," Andy called as they passed Sherlock, who stared at them the entire way, even as he smiled, "Nice meeting you John."

"Come on, ya flirt," William grumbled, noting his tone as he grabbed Andy's hand and dragged him out of the flat.

"Again, not gay!" John sighed and Quennel smirked, patting his shoulder.

"And if you need _me_, I'll be in C," Mrs. Turner smiled to Quennel as she made her way to the door, nodding to Sherlock in greeting on the way out.

"Mrs. Turner," he nodded, politely before looking back at Quennel who swallowed and turned to emptying the bags Andy and William had brought.

John glanced between them, feeling the tension between them as he lifted another cookie from the plate on the counter then stepped toward the door, reporting, "Well, I'm gonna head back to our flat as well. You alright here, Quennel?"

"Fine, thanks, John," she called back, not looking back from her task as John stopped next to Sherlock.

"You'd better apologize for whatever you did if you heard even a _word_ of the conversation we were just having," he advised in a hushed tone.

"If you've planned to leave I suggest you do so now," Sherlock sneered, making John shrug, raising his hands in surrender before turning to saunter out the door. He turned back to Quennel as she finished unloading the bags and looked over the things on her counter with a sigh. He pulled off his scarf and coat to rest them on the arm of the sofa before heading toward her. "Would you like some assistance?"

Quennel paused with a loaf of bread in her good hand and glanced at him as he stepped to her left, staring down at her, waiting for her answer.

"Um…yeah," she finally replied, looking around before instructing, "Could you put my dishware away? Thanks."

He nodded and began putting the dishes away, knowing she would probably rearrange them if they weren't to her liking. He glanced at her a few times as they continued putting things away before she finally spoke again.

"It seems I've made some friends," she reported. "Mrs. Turner told Will and Andy about me and they bought me groceries. I'll have to do something nice for them in return."

"If you'd like," he nodded, putting the last plate away and taking the box to set it with the pile of empty ones in her living room then returning to the kitchen to help her put her groceries away.

"How did the interrogation go?" she murmured, hesitantly.

He said nothing for a moment before replying, "I…owe you an apology, Quennel."

She stopped dead and turned to him with wide eyes as he turned to face her as well.

"Come again?" she blurted, making him sigh as he approached her and took the bag of pasta she was about to put away from her hand and set it on the counter, meeting her gaze.

"I asked if you knew Xaunder, it was based on the tone of his comment about your intelligence," he explained. "Upon interrogating him, I deduced, and he admitted, that he went to Oxford University at the same time you did. That was how he knew you, but he doubted you would remember him."

Quennel frowned and looked away from him in thought, searching her memory for anyone she might have known that looked like Elstan Xaunder. Something clicked in her mind, making her eyes shoot wide as she looked up at him.

"I remember," she breathed. "The only German in our class. His name was Colin Weiss, not Elstan Xaunder. But, Sherlock, I—"

"There is no need to explain," he cut in, making her frown at him. "I know, now, that you had nothing to do with him."

She raised a brow at him, making him frown at her in wonder.

"You know _now_?" she echoed, irritably. "You mean you didn't when I _told_ you I didn't know who the hell he was?"

"I had to be certain before I came to you with my apology," he replied. "I rarely apologize for my deductions, as you may know."

"I know," she nodded. "That's why I just left and didn't pummel you, like I wanted to."

"Then…why—?"

"Because I like seeing that cute little crinkle in our nose when you frown," she smirked before grabbing the bag of pasta and putting it away.

"Ah…yes, I did hear you admit to being attracted to me to John and the other three," he retorted, turning toward the counter to gather the bags as Quennel swallowed hard, watching him fold the bags and smooth them out on the counter. "Of course, I had already deduced that."

"Yes, I remember," she muttered before turning to head toward her loving room, tossing empty boxes onto the sofa and opening one to start emptying it of knick-knacks.

"I thank you for putting a quick end to their assumptions that I may be attracted to you," he added, making her hand falter as she was about to set a framed picture of herself and her siblings on the small table she'd placed next to the sofa. She felt her heart sink at his words as she set the picture on the table and looked into the box, staring at it as she sulked.

"You're welcome," she muttered, unmoving as he stacked the bags on the counter and made his way toward her. "Just how long did eavesdrop on our conversation?"

"Only what pertained to me," he replied, stopping next to her.

"Brilliant," she grumbled, reaching into the box for a leather bound journal, setting it on the sofa cushion before reaching in for something else, but she was stopped by a hand gripping her wrist, making her frown up at Sherlock over her shoulder. "What?"

"I think you may have misunderstood my gratitude," he murmured low, making her frown deepen slightly as they held each other's gazes. "I wouldn't want them to assume that I am attracted to you…until _I_ am certain of my own feelings for you."

Quennel's eyes shot so wide, Sherlock was afraid they would pop out of her head and roll across the floor.

"Your feelings…for me?" she breathed and he nodded, making her sputter, "Wha-What? I…I don't—What?"

"Perhaps you should sit," he suggested, helping her from her spot on the floor and turning her to sit on the sofa before releasing her hand and straightening next to her, his hands behind his back as he cleared his throat before he began to list, "I find you distracting, frustrating at times, and impossible at others. However, you have proven that you are quite bright, and when you were kidnapped and tortured I could not think of anything but finding you, then once you _were_ found, I had the strongest desire to kill the man that hurt you, though Lestrade took the pleasure from me. It's rather surprising that I feel this way about you, I'll admit. I've never felt this way for anyone. Not even the Woman."

Quennel only frowned up at him, remaining silent and he shook his head.

"Not important," he assured her, knowing she was silently asking who the Woman was. "My point is…I believe I _am_ attracted to you. You are physically pleasing and I find your intellect appealing as well. Though it is nowhere near par to mine, but no one's is, really. I find that is the reason I was so upset at the thought of you being in league with Elstan Xaunder. Enraged, actually."

Quennel still remained silent, staring at him in absolute disbelief, blinking a few times before he frowned down at her in wonder.

"I believe this is the moment in the conversation where you respond," he urged.

"Are…are you serious?" she breathed, still staring at him.

"Completely," he nodded.

"You're attracted…to _me_?"

"I believe I've made that quite clear, don't you?"

"You did, but I don't believe it."

"I hardly do myself."

Quennel couldn't help but chuckle before biting her lower lip in thought, watching him as he watched her. She stood, a bit uneasily, her leg still a bit sore and Sherlock lowered his hands to his sides, about to move to help her, but he remained still when she steadied herself, approaching him. She stepped an inch away from him, her nose brushing against the open collar of his pastel purple button-down peeking out from under his suit jacket, then lifted her right hand to curl her finger at him, beckoning him closer.

Sherlock frowned in wonder before hesitantly lowering his face to hers, not failing to notice the sparkle in her eye and the smirk over her lips. He stopped when their noses brushed against each other's, his eyes still locked with hers before she closed hers. He frowned again before his eyes shot wide when she lifted her chin and pressed her lips to his. His eyes shifted over her face, what little he could see of it, before he allowed them to flutter shut, his hands rising to cup her face as he finally registered the feeling of her lips on his.

She couldn't help smiling against his lips as they didn't move for a moment before she slowly pulled back, her gaze meeting his when he opened his eyes and stared down at her in what she could only describe as awe.

"So…what do we do now, Mr. Holmes?" she smirked, lifting her good hand to fiddle with one of his buttons on his shirt.

"I—" he choked, before clearing his throat as she snickered when he lowered his hands from her face and tried again, "I leave our next course of action to _you_, Miss Yule. I believe you have had more experience in these sort of dealings than I."

"Well, I've never been in the sights of a genius detective before, so I'll admit, I'm a bit out of my depth," she admitted. "Well? What shall we do? So far you've solved a case for me, I've met your brother, we've been on two dates _and_ you've saved my life."

"Yes, it has been a strange…courtship so far," he nodded in agreement before frowning at the way the word 'courtship' sounded coming out of his mouth.

"I'm not sure we could call it a courtship," she smiled. "At the very least…a friendship?"

"Until now, I think," he added, making her frown in wonder. "Friends do not kiss as we just did."

"No, they don't," she chuckled before chewing on her lower lip in thought and chanced to ask, "What are we, then?"

Sherlock frowned in thought, staring at a point over her head before looking back down at her, replying, "Slightly _more _than friends. I believe the term is 'friends with benefits'?"

Quennel laughed at that, making him frown before quickly calmed herself and shook her head.

"You wouldn't know what friends with benefits was if it slapped you in the face, Sherlock," she chuckled. "We won't put a label on this, I think. Labels like this are far too complicated for you. Just don't go around telling people we're friends with benefits. We're…trying each other out."

Sherlock frowned in confusion and was about to speak but she lifted her hand to press her fingertips to his lips, silencing him. He stared down at her in surprise as she winked back at him.

"Don't worry that genius brain of yours," she smiled before craning her neck to press a quick kiss to his chin then turned, waving at him to follow her. "Now help me unpack."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** FINALLY! reviews?


	19. Working the Case

**A/N:** new chappie! enjoy!

* * *

><p><em><strong>Chapter 19: Working the Case <strong>_

Sherlock lay on his back on his sofa that evening, thinking with his fingers steepled beneath his chin, staring at the ceiling as John typed up Sherlock's account of the of his interrogation with Xaunder from his armchair. The buzz of a phone call coming to a mobile set on vibrate sounded through the quiet room, making John look up to see Sherlock's phone glowing and buzzing on the table in front of the sofa.

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

"You gonna answer that?"

"Hm."

"Is that a yes or a no?"

"Hm."

John rolled his eyes as the phone stopped. Not a second later, John's phone began buzzing in his pocket and he reached for it to look to the caller ID. Frowning in wonder he answered and pressed it to his ear.

"Everything alright, Quennel?" he asked, and that made Sherlock shoot his gaze to John in wide-eyed wonder.

"_Does he __ever__ answer his mobile?_" she instantly asked, making John chuckle.

"Rarely," he smirked.

"_Put me on speaker phone, if you please, John_," she requested and John looked to Sherlock, waved him over before doing as she asked and Sherlock stood to head toward John.

"We're listening," John told her.

"_Lestrade is looking for you, Sherlock_," she reported. "_Something's happened with Xaunder. He wouldn't tell me what it was, but it sounded serious_."

"Meet us outside," Sherlock ordered into the phone before turning to grab his coat and scarf, making John frown at his back before setting his laptop aside to head after him.

"_I'm not going anywhere with you two_," Quennel retorted from the phone, making Sherlock stop and turn on John just as the doctor stepped up to him. "_I'm taking a hot bath and going to bed. I've been through far too much today. Don't go getting yourself killed, Mr. Holmes. Remember, you're escorting me to St Bart's for my appointment tomorrow_."

Sherlock snatched the phone from John and took it off speaker phone to press it to his ear, retorting, "Miss Yule, I recall you assumed employment with John and myself solving our cases. _This_ is part of your employment."

"_I unpacked, met the gay couple in my building and endured the shock of hearing __you__ actually say you were attracted to me, Sherlock, I need a bath and some sleep_."

He gestured for John to go out ahead of him, making him frown before he made his way out the door and down the stairs, Sherlock following, still on the phone.

"Surely everything I've done for you today requires some quid pro quo?" he retorted.

"_After you accused me of working with Xaunder? I think not._"

"Quennel—!" He stopped as he got to the street and let John hail a cab for them, turning away from his friend to continue in a low voice, "Are you honestly going to make me say it?"

There was a long pause before he could hear her smirk through the phone as she replied, "_Perhaps. It's about as romantic as you'll get, but I'll take it._"

He rolled his eyes before glancing over his shoulder at John just as a cab pulled up then muttered something into the phone.

"_Sorry, I couldn't hear. What was that?_"

"Sherlock," John called, making the detective raise his hand to tell him to give him a moment.

"Quennel…I need you with me," he finally said a little clearer before there was a pause on the other end of the line, making him frown in wonder. "Miss Yule?"

"_I'll be there in a minute. Hold the cab_."

Sherlock couldn't help the smirk as he hung up the phone and turned back to John to hand it to him, explaining, "We're waiting for Quennel."

"I don't think Lestrade has all night, Sherlock," John warned, but his attention was caught behind Sherlock as Quennel came out of her building.

"Right," she sighed, stepping toward them, frowning when her phone went off.

"I'm certain he's finally going to confess where that dog is," Sherlock smirked as John climbed into the cab and he waited for Quennel who was on her phone. "We have no time to lose, Miss Yule. He may change his mind at any moment."

Quennel said nothing for a moment as she listened before looking to Sherlock who frowned back at her in wonder as he stood beside the cab, holding the door open.

"Sherlock," she breathed, making his frown deepen as she stared wide eyes at him before holding the phone out to him. "It's Lestrade. You're not gonna like what he has to say."

* * *

><p><em>Morgue...<em>

Sherlock Holmes sneered as he stared down at the body on the slab in the morgue of St Bart's. Elstan Xaunder had died from ingesting cyanide he had hidden in a false molar, shown clearly by foam at the corners of his mouth and a ghastly expression over his face.

"Should've had him checked," Lestrade sighed, scratching at the back of his head. "I should've known he wouldn't have been taken alive. It seemed too easy."

"Have you checked his cell?" Sherlock questioned, making Lestrade, John, Quennel and Molly, who stood on the other side of the body, turn to him in wonder.

"Not yet," Lestrade admitted. "Why?"

"He'll have left something there for me, I suspect," Sherlock replied as he looked to Molly. "Anything significant on the body?"

"Not that I could see," Molly shrugged with a shake of her head. "Maybe you'll have better luck?"

Sherlock nodded as she stepped aside letting him start examining the body as Quennel looked to Lestrade, tugging on his sleeve. He looked to her with a frown of wonder, but his unasked question was answered when she asked, "What happened in that interrogation?"

"He didn't tell you?" Lestrade frowned before looking to John, then Sherlock as he sputtered, "He didn't tell—? You didn't tell her?!"

"It's not relevant that she know," Sherlock replied, not looking away from the body.

"Sherlock," John chided. "She's gonna find out eventually."

"Relevant?!" Lestrade snapped, making Quennel frown between them in utter confusion. "You didn't think it was _relevant_?!"

"Ok, enough outrage on my account," Quennel retorted as she looked to Sherlock who didn't bother looking back at any of them. "Just _tell_ me what I'm apparently not supposed to know."

Lestrade sighed, heavily before waving at John to tell her, making her look to the Doctor, expectantly.

"Ever heard of…Moriarty?" John asked, making her frown in wonder and shake her head. "He's…the consulting criminal. We haven't from him in a while but…imagine someone as clever as Sherlock, just _not _on our side."

"He tested Sherlock a while back," Lestrade recalled, drawing Quennel's attention to him. "He gave him a certain amount of time to solve each case or he'd blow a bomb strapped to some poor sod."

"Bloody hell," she breathed in disbelief, looking to John who rocked on his feet before she looked back at Lestrade. "And he's still out there?!"

"For now," Sherlock finally chimed in, examining his sleeve as Molly watched him work and the other three looked to him again. "Lestrade, have you found the dog yet?"

"Not as of yet, no, but I've got Donovan working on it," Lestrade replied.

"Doesn't Sally hate dogs?" Molly recalled as Sherlock made his way around the body to examine the hands.

"She hates Sherlock as well, but she works with him if I say so," Lestrade smirked.

"Begrudgingly, I might add," Sherlock retorted before looking to Quennel and when her gaze met his he waved her over, making her frown as she made her way toward him.

"More than begrudgingly," John scoffed as Quennel stepped up next to Sherlock as he still leaned over the body. "She won't stop calling him a freak."

"Give _me_ a minute or so with her," Quennel smirked as she leaned over the body as well, her smirk directed at the two men. "I think she can be persuaded to curb that ignorant tongue of hers."

"Do you see it?" Sherlock asked her in a murmur, making her frown at him before she looked to Xaunder's hand in front of them as Sherlock lifted it with a gloved hand. She turned her attention to the hand and looked it over, her eyes narrowing as Sherlock watched her, intently.

"There's dirt under his nails," she noticed, but didn't look away from examining it. "I see some grass stains on his fingers. He was digging something up somewhere."

"Or digging a hole _for _something," he smirked, before looking to Molly. "Have you taken some samples from his nails yet, Molly?"

"Ready and waiting for you," she nodded, lifting an envelope toward him and he stood to take it with one hand, grabbing Quennel's hand with the other to drag her after him as he made his way to the exit.

"Excellent initiative, Molly," he complimented. "We'll be in the lab."

"We?" Quennel echoed, but he didn't answer her.

"Go find the German Shepherd!" he ordered Lestrade.

"He wasn't with the mistress!" Lestrade called back, rushing after him as John thanked Molly before rushing after the two as well. "He wasn't at the house, and the wife doesn't know where he'd be."

"Maybe if you didn't send a dog hater after him, you'd have found him by now," Quennel shot back before giving a sudden sound of surprise when Sherlock stopped and whirled on her. She stared up at him with wide eyes as Lestrade and John stopped as well, frowning at him.

"Do you like dogs?" he asked, making her frown in wonder at him.

"Uh…yes?" she blurted, making him smirk back and nod.

"Good. You can take that end of the investigation then," he nodded, releasing her hand and waving her toward Lestrade. "Take her with you."

"Hang on!" she retorted, making him frown down at her. "You don't tell me what to do. Working _with _you, not _for _you, remember?"

"Very well then," he nodded, straightening as he watched her. "What would _you_ like to do? Come with me or search for the dog?"

She placed a finger under her lower lip in thought, looking up in false contemplation before lowering her hand to set it on her hip, replying, "Fine, I'll go help Donovan look for the German Shepherd." She turned to Lestrade, adding, "If she disrespects Sherlock in front of me, I'm using my one good hand to punch her out."

"I'll let her know," Lestrade laughed, gently patting her shoulder before nodding that she follow him. "Come on, we'll get back to Scotland Yard. Sherlock, give me an update on what you find."

"Perhaps," Sherlock retorted, turning to head toward the lab, making Lestrade roll his eyes as John was about to head after him.

"Uh, boys, wait a moment," Quennel requested before racing after the consulting detective. "Sherlock!"

He stopped and turned on her just as she came up to him, making him frown down at her in wonder. She beckoned him closer with a smirk, a gesture he recognized from their recent interaction and making him glance around to be sure no one could see them, having turned a corner in the hall. He looked back at her and craned his neck downward, close enough so that all she had to do was lift her chin to press a quick kiss to his lips.

"I'll keep you informed, Mr. Holmes," she smiled.

"I appreciate it, Miss Yule."

* * *

><p><em>Later...<em>

"We've asked the wife already," Donovan sighed, as they climbed out of her car and they made their way up the drive.

"I'd like to ask her a few questions myself, Sally," Quennel nearly snarled as she somehow kept a pace ahead of Donovan to get to the door.

"Didn't you ask her all the questions you needed when you were here with the amateur that calls himself a detective?" Donovan retorted as Quennel lifted her good hand to knock, but stopped and turned to Donovan with a near glare. She had been griping and complaining since Lestrade dropped her off at the Yard and told Donovan she'd be working on finding the Jones' dog. Quennel had had enough.

"If you'll recall, we didn't really get a chance to ask her _anything _since Xaunder was there, threatening her life, and _then_ she was a blubbering mess after having her life threatened. So, unless you asked any questions at the precinct that _I _planned to ask, I'll talk to her, thank you. Not only that, but you'll do well to speak highly of Sherlock Holmes around _me_ from now on. Without him, half the psychopaths _you _couldn't catch would still be out there."

She turned again, not waiting for Donovan's response but she was stopped when more when she made it.

"Takes a psychopath to _catch _a psychopath, don't you think?"

Quennel gritted her teeth, not daring to look back at her, out of fear she'd slap the curls off her head.

"Donovan, maybe you should wait in the car," Quennel suggested, making Donovan frown at her.

"Lestrade said—"

"Since you're not that interested in this part of the case, I thought you'd jump at the chance to sit in the car," Quennel cut in. "I won't be long."

Donovan glared at the back of her head before huffing and sucking her teeth then turning to march back to the car. Quennel gave a sigh of relief that Donovan was finally off her back for a bit before attempting to knock again, this time actually doing it. The door slowly opened to reveal Mrs. Jones peeking out, and Quennel gave a friendly smile.

"Hello, Mrs. Jones," she nodded. "I don't know if you remember me—"

"I remember you," she cut in. "Please, call me Wendy. You practically saved my life, after all. Come in."

"Um…thank you," Quennel nodded as Wendy stepped back to let Quennel enter, shutting the door when she came in. "I only have a question or two for you and then I'll be on my way."

"I already spoke to the police, and that friend of yours, Mr.…Holmes I believe," Wendy replied, stepping toward the kitchen before entreating Quennel, "Have a seat, won't you? Would you like something to drink?"

"No, thank you," Quennel called, waiting for Wendy to come back from the kitchen with a glass of water for herself. "My questions aren't really about what happened. I'm here to ask about your dog."

She frowned when Wendy's eyes glazed over in sadness and she took a sip of her water before nodding, "Caesar."

"Yes," Quennel nodded. "I'm here to ask where you think he might be. You see, he should have been with your husband when he came home but…a witness says he wasn't. I'm really sorry to bring this all up, but—"

"The police asked me about him as well," Wendy cut in. "I don't know where he could be. He's such a good dog, he's never run away or chased a cat or barked unnecessarily or bit anyone. Not to be rude, but, what's so special about our dog?"

"One of our…investigators think it may be important," Quennel replied.

"Sherlock Holmes," Wendy guessed and Quennel nodded, hesitantly.

"So, you never felt the need to put one of those trackers on him?" she wondered. "Just in case he was kidnapped or on the off chance he _might_ run off?"

Realization dawned on Wendy and she set her water down on the table, nodding, "Yes! We did! Let me get you the serial number. They showed me how to locate him on the computer."

She disappeared down the hall and Quennel pulled out her phone to text Sherlock while she waited.

_With the wife. She just told me the dog, Caesar, has a tracker on him. She's getting me the number to track the signal. Any luck with that dirt under Xaunder's nails?_

Wendy returned, scribbling on a notepad in her hand before ripping it off the pad and handing it to Quennel who took it with a nod of thanks just as her phone buzzed again.

"Just to be sure," Quennel began as Wendy sat again. "Will you be wanting him back when we find him?"

She pulled out her phone again, expecting her to say yes, but when she didn't say it right away she looked to her to see Wendy staring into her glass of water.

"He was…my husband's dog more than he was mine," Wendy explained. "I think…if he were here, it would only remind me of my husband and I would…be in tears every day. He knew more about dogs than I did, anyway."

Quennel nodded as she stood, Wendy doing the same and making their way to the door.

"I'll let you know when we find him, if you'd like," Quennel offered.

"Yes, thank you," Wendy nodded, opening the door to let Quennel out.

She made her way down the drive toward the car Donovan sat in and climbed in, ignoring the other woman's glare.

"Well?" Donovan snapped, not starting the car as Quennel looked to the text Sherlock had sent her. "Dead end?"

"We need to get back to Scotland Yard," Quennel told her. "I've got a lead for you. No thanks to you."

"Now, hang on—"

"If you don't start this car right now, I'm gonna get out and walk, and since Lestrade likes me a bit, I imagine he's not gonna be too happy to know that I _walked_ there."

Donovan glared at Quennel before starting the car angrily and Quennel finally focused on the text from Sherlock.

_I'll meet you at the Yard. I've had some success in analyzing the soil. Our search may come to a mutual destination. SH_

She frowned and typed up another text as Donovan, thankfully, remained silent for the drive to Scotland Yard.

_You think Xaunder killed and buried the dog?_

She was surprised at how quickly he was answering her texts when she got an instantaneous answer and opened it.

_It is a possibility. Do you have any theories? SH_

_Not really, but the optimistic thought is that he's __alive__._

_Optimism. How quaint. SH_

_Don't be a twat._

_And how are things going with Donovan? SH_

_Oh, just dandy._

She knew he'd catch her sarcasm but couldn't help but smile as she sent another message.

_I wish you could've come with me instead. The conversation would be far more stimulating._

His next message made her smile burst into a grin.

_I have to confess, I was feeling the same way about you. You're far more compliant. SH_

_Should I take that as a compliment?_

_Take it as you will, Miss Yule. SH_

_Prat._

_I've been told. SH_

_See you at the Yard :*_

She couldn't help but give a small smirk as she typed in the emoticon, knowing that would get a remark out of him. Sure enough, he instantly responded.

_What was that? SH_

_It's a kiss face._

_Why? SH_

_Because I wanted to, but I can't._

_That is odd. SH_

_You would think so. I'll see you in a bit and give you a real one ;)_

_These faces are odd. Stop it. SH_

_As you wish, Mr. Holmes._

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **I couldn't help the fluff! reviews?


	20. Is He Back?

**A/N:** new chappie! enjoy!

* * *

><p><em><strong>Chapter 20: Is He Back?<strong>_

Quennel nearly leapt out of the car when Donovan parked. Not only could she no longer stand the woman's prattle, but she was eager to find Caesar, and see Sherlock of course. She made her way to the door of Scotland Yard, wincing only once at the pain in her leg. She didn't wait for Donovan as she entered, knowing exactly where Lestrade's office was.

"Oi, Quennel!"

She stopped halfway to his office to find him leaning over a computer that john was sitting at. She approached them, frowning and glancing around when she didn't see Sherlock before looking to him when she reached him and he stood tall.

"Sherlock said you had something," he explained.

"Yeah, Mrs. Jones put a tracker in the dog," she reported, quickly as she pulled a piece of paper from her pocket and handing it to him. "Dog's name is Caesar. This is the tracking number."

"Oh, you are _gorgeous_!" Lestrade grinned, reaching over to pull her head to his and kissing her temple before handing the paper to John.

"Thanks," she chuckled before looking around the office then turning to John to ask, "Where's Sherlock?"

"That's a good question," John frowned in wonder, focused on the computer. "He wanted me to take a separate cab. He should've been here before me but he's still not here."

Quennel frowned as he only shrugged but she had no time to question him further when her phone went off, making her frown and pull it out just as Donovan walked up.

"Pretty quick for a woman with a leg injury," she grumbled, stepping toward Lestrade who gave her a chiding look before looking back to the computer as Quennel focused on her phone.

_Where are you? SH_

She glanced around before typing up her answer.

_I'm at the Yard. Where are __you__?_

_Outside. Come out alone. Don't tell them where you're going SH_

She was about to respond with a snarky remark but she could nearly feel his urgency through the text so she decided to slowly step back while the three at the computer remained focused. She hurried as fast as her leg would let her toward the exit again, pushing the door open with her good arm and looking up and down the street.

"Ah, Miss Yule."

Quennel jumped and looked ahead to see Sherlock standing at the curb, opening the door of a cab and beckoning her forward with an offered hand.

"I appreciate your promptness. Now, get in."

"Where are we going?" she frowned, taking his hand and letting him help her in before he climbed into the cab himself. "And why didn't you want John or Lestrade coming along?"

"I've been with them all day on this case," he explained before reporting, "We're going to the location where Elstan Xaunder was digging."

"What about Caesar?" she wondered as the cab began rolling.

"We may find him there," he replied.

"Must you be so pessimistic?" Quennel muttered, making him frown at her in wonder.

"What do you mean?" he questioned.

"You're assuming the dog is dead."

"I said it was a possibility. Did you speak to the mistress about the dog?"

"His name is Caesar. She said he was with Victor when he arrived, stayed in the house while Victor was there and left with him."

"Which means he jumped out while the victim was on his way home or he jumped out when he heard the gunshot. More likely the latter."

"Poor thing must be scared out of its wits."

"We'll see," Sherlock nodded before looking to her again, his gaze sweeping over her quickly before he looked away. "Donovan upset you?"

"Didn't take much for you to deduce that I'm sure," she smirked before sighing and trying to relax the tenseness in her shoulders that he'd caught. "I hate the way she disrespects you."

"People often lash out at things they don't understand," he replied, then shrugged, "Honestly, I could care less what she thinks. She's an insignificant speck."

"Don't let her hear you say that," Quennel chuckled, turning to him just as he met her gaze. "She'll punch you and ruin that handsome face of yours."

"I'm certain you won't let that happen," Sherlock smirked back, making her look to the roof to feign thought. He frowned at her in confusion as to why she had to _think_ about that, making her laugh before she lifted her right hand to beckon him closer with a finger. He still frowned but hesitantly leaned toward her as she still smiled at him before she leaned up and pressed her lips to his in a tender kiss, then pulled back to smile again while he stared at her with wide, blue eyes.

"I texted you a kiss, remember?" she smirked, lifting her good hand to stroke the edge of his jaw then tapped the end of his nose, making him flinch and frown at her as she snickered. "I owed you a real one."

"Ah, yes," he nodded. "John explained it to me, these…emoticons, I believe he called them. Quite odd. What is the point of them?"

"To express a feeling through text," she explained. "Or an action."

"Odd."

"_You_ would think so."

"Don't use them when you text me."

"Only when I want to annoy you, I promise," she smirked, making his eyes narrow at her in a glare and she only snickered.

Before he could respond the cab came to a stop, making them both look out their windows. Sherlock dug a hand into his pocket and tossed some money at the cabby before climbing out of his side of the cab, holding the door open as Quennel shuffled out herself.

"Richmond Park?" she frowned as he took her hand and led her away from the cab. "Is this where the soil under his fingers came from?"

"Yes," he replied. "More specifically in…this direction. Come along."

"This is along the route between the mistress's house and the Jones'," she realized as he dragged her along.

"And what would you deduce from that?" Sherlock smirked, now leading her up a hill into a cluster of trees.

Quennel frowned in thought before her eyes shot wide and she caught up with him a step to stare at him as she breathed, "The mistress has something to do with it?!"

"Very good, Miss Yule," he nodded, not looking as he stopped them, looking around at the ground.

"But…she knew he was married while they were having the affair," she frowned as she watched him searching for something when he released her hand. "And Lestrade said she wasn't looking for him to get a divorce. What's her motive?"

"Money," he replied, still searching for something amongst the tree trunks. "Isn't it always something so tedious? He had a nest-egg he was building up so that when the time came he could leave the wife for the mistress, but he didn't know that the mistress didn't give a fig about him, just the money he spent on her. So when he told her he was getting ready to leave his wife she played along, long enough to acquire the money and leave him herself. This was planned to a T, and I'm certain I know who helped her."

"What about the money Mrs. Jones gave to the assassin?" Quennel recalled. "Or rather, the assassin's lackey."

"That was his rightful payment for the job," he answered, kneeling at a tree trunk and starting to dig. "The nest-egg was collected by the mistress once the wife gave up the information under Xaunder's threat to her life. But there was _no _way the mistress would give up a cent of her money, even to pay off the assassin."

A faint sound caught their attention, making them both stop and look around, both straining to hear what the sound was as it continued.

"Is that—?"

"It is," Sherlock grinned as he stood and raced toward the sound, Quennel hurrying after him as best she could…following the sound of a dog barking.

They stopped a few yards away from a tree where a German Shepherd stood, giving one last bark at the before he began digging at the trunk of the tree.

"It's Caesar!" Quennel grinned as Sherlock made his way toward the dog who stepped back to make room for him as he began digging. She took a step toward them but stopped when Caesar growled in her direction, making her frown in wonder as Sherlock stopped to look at him in confusion as well.

"What's the matter with—?"

"Sherlock!"

He turned at the sound of Quennel's gasp, standing tall in one fluid motion before he set a glare on the scene before him. A woman with fire-red hair and dark eyes stood behind Quennel with a gun to her head, another arm around the brunette's shoulders to keep her between herself and Sherlock.

"The mistress, I presume," Sherlock nodded, calmly as Caesar still growled beside him, baring his teeth, but unmoving. "Miss McLeod, I believe."

"The famous Sherlock Holmes," she snarled through a smirk, the barrel of the gun tapping into Quennel's temple and making her close her eyes, tightly against the fear welling inside her. "He told me you'd figure everything out."

"Elstan Xaunder?" Sherlock asked back, but frowned slightly when she shook her head, slowly.

"My friend Jim," she smirked, making his frown fall to a scowl as Quennel's eyes shot wide at him. "Elstan was nice enough to bring the money here until everything settled. I was gonna take the money and disappear. But then they put _you _on the case and I had to adjust my schedule."

"It was quite elaborate," he nodded. "But in the end…predictable. If you're going to shoot her I suggest you do it before she takes advantage of our little discussion to take you by surprise and escape."

Both women shot wide-eyed stares of disbelief at him as he held his hands behind his back.

"Sherlock?" Quennel ground out, now glaring at him.

"Don't you care if she dies?" McLeod wondered.

"Should I?" he shrugged.

McLeod frowned before setting her jaw in resolve and pressing the gun closer to Quennel's temple. Tears came to her eyes before she shut them tightly in anticipation, her heart racing when she heard the hammer click…but nothing happened. Quennel's eyes shot open as she panted for air and looked to the woman holding her hostage who in turn was looking at the gun in her hand, frowning at it and wondering why it hadn't fired. They both looked to Sherlock who gave a smirk and reached into his pocket to pull out the clip to the gun she was holding.

"How the hell—?!"

"I was on to you the entire time, Miss McLeod," he smirked, waving the clip at her. "When I went to interview you after speaking with Mrs. Jones I found this under the cushion of your sofa when you went to fetch the tea and took the precaution of removing the clip. Just in case we happened to meet again."

"Bastard!" McLeod snarled before Quennel rammed her good elbow into the woman's gut. She doubled over with a grunt, releasing Quennel who raced toward Sherlock and he caught her around the waist to stop her.

"Caesar! Attacco!"

The red-head screamed when Caesar lunged at her with a snarl, clamping onto her arm at Sherlock's command.

"Sherlock!" John called as he raced toward them, followed by Lestrade, who had pulled his gun and was aiming it toward the McLeod and Caesar as he stopped next to them.

"Caesar! Basta!" (Enough!) Sherlock called, and Caesar released McLeod, backing away from her as she sobbed and writhed in pain on the ground, two of Lestrade's officers approaching to get her up.

"Get her to hospital," Lestrade ordered them, holstering his gun. "Give her rights on the way."

"You alright, Quennel?" John hoped, approaching the two as Sherlock released her and knelt next to the tree again to start digging, Caesar right next to him, sniffing around the tree trunk as Lestrade approached them.

"I'm fine," she nodded before turning to Sherlock and frowning at his back. "How did you know they trained Caesar in Italian?"

"It was all over their home," he replied, still digging. "The décor, the pictures of them in Italy. And if you're going to name your dog Caesar, you may as well train him in Italian. Ah ha!"

They all gathered around him as he yanked a silver briefcase from the dirt, dusted it off and opened it.

"The nest-egg?" Quennel guessed.

"Yes," Sherlock nodded with a huge, satisfied grin before he shut the case and stood to hand it to Lestrade. "This is Mrs. Jones' money. Your case is solved."

"Just like that?" Lestrade frowned as Sherlock stepped around him, Caesar trotting behind him.

"Just like that," Sherlock replied.

"Wait a minute, what about the dog?" Lestrade questioned, stopping Sherlock and making him turn to look to the canine as John and Quennel approached him. "Mrs. Jones didn't want him back. Too many memories of her husband. Can't say as I blame her, but what are we gonna do with him?"

"Mrs. Hudson doesn't allow pets," John warned Sherlock.

"Mrs. Turner does," Quennel smiled, shooting all their gazes to her as she reached down and scratched Caesar's head and he panted up at her with a huge dog grin, tainted with some blood around his mouth. "He might like it with me."

"He only understands Italian," Sherlock warned her, making her look up at him with a smirk. "Can you speak Italian?"

"So che una frase o due," (I know a phrase or two) she smirked back, making them all stare at her in surprise. "Non ti preoccupare per me, signor Holmes." (Don't you worry about me, Mr. Holmes)

She looked to Caesar who was now rubbing up against her leg, making her give a small wince and shift back just a bit so he would stop as she scratched his head.

"Andiamo, Caesar!" she grinned as she turned to head down the hill again toward the car park. She glanced over her shoulder and grinned, "You lot, coming?"

"She's a right interesting one, isn't she?" Lestrade smirked, passing between John and Sherlock who both came out of their shock and hurried after the two.

"Interesting indeed," Sherlock couldn't help but smirk as they made their way to the car park filled with police cars.

"So," John began, hurrying to keep up with his friend's long stride and resumed, "Moriarty?"

"Moriarty," Sherlock ground out, a glare in his eye.

"He's back?"

"Not quite."

"Going after him?"

"Not yet."

Sherlock sprinted ahead to catch up with Quennel as she and Lestrade stopped at one of the police cars, Lestrade speaking to one of his men. She leaned down to scratch Caesar's head with her good hand, giggling at him as he stared up at her with huge puppy eyes and an equally huge puppy grin, his tongue hanging out of his mouth.

"He seems to have taken a quick liking to you," Sherlock noticed, stopping next to her and she smiled up at him.

"I've always had a way with animals," she replied, looking down at Caesar before giving a grimace. "You need a bath, pup. Pronti per un bagno?" (Ready for a bath?)

Caesar gave a whine and bowed his head, lifting a paw over his nose and making Quennel laugh as Lestrade approached them again.

"Right," he sighed as John stepped up next to Sherlock. "I've gotta go take care of Miss McLeod, here so one of my men will get you wherever you need to go."

"Miss Yule and I will take a cab," Sherlock reported, making all eyes turn to him in wonder.

"Will a cab take a dog with blood on its face?" Quennel smirked, making him frown down at her as she only continued smiling at him.

"I don't think so," Lestrade chuckled. "Save some money and take the offer of a ride, eh, Sherlock?"

"I prefer a cab," Sherlock explained. "The drivers don't feel a need to make small talk."

"I dunno," Quennel hummed, still scratching Caesar's head. "After that _Study in Pink_ I thought for certain you'd stay away from cabs."

John laughed as Sherlock frowned at her then at John and Lestrade snickered. Sherlock rolled his eyes before grabbing Quennel's hand to pull her toward the street, but Caesar gave a snarl, making them all freeze and stare down at him.

"Tranquillo, Caesar," (Quiet, Caesar) Quennel murmured to the dog as he growled, lowly at Sherlock who released her hand so she could stroke Caesar's fur to calm him. "Va tutto bene." (It's alright)

"I like this dog," Lestrade smirked, making Sherlock turn a glare to the detective inspector.

"I'm letting the kind officer drive me home," Quennel announced, stepping toward the policeman Lestrade had been speaking with who opened the back door to his police car. "Whoever's coming with me, better hurry up! I'm heading to Baker Street."

"I'll go with you," John called, hurrying after her, but when Sherlock didn't follow, Lestrade turned to him with a frown.

"You're not heading back?" the detective frowned in wonder.

"No," Sherlock hummed, watching Quennel shuffle into the car after Caesar jumped in and John climbed into the front passenger seat. He looked to Lestrade as he continued, "I want to speak with Miss McLeod."

"What for?" Lestrade frowned.

"She mentioned Moriarty," Sherlock replied. "I want to see what else she might know about him."

"Blimey," Lestrade sighed, scratching at the back of his head. "So they were working together for that lunatic, eh?"

"It would appear so," Sherlock nodded as the car with Quennel, John and Caesar in it drove off, heading for Baker Street.

"Alright, then," Lestrade shrugged, heading for his car. "You can ride with me, then."

* * *

><p><em>Meanwhile...<em>

"He's so well trained," John smiled as he looked back at Quennel patting Caesar's head as the dog lounged across the back seat, his head in her lap. "It's too bad Mrs. Jones didn't want to keep him. He's a good guard dog, I can tell."

"Well, that's good to hear," Quennel chuckled. "I may need a good guard dog considering what my life's become now. From zero to sixty and all that."

"That's what happens when you meet Sherlock Holmes," John smirked as a buzz came from Quennel's pocket.

She sighed and rolled her eyes as she dug her phone from her pocket to look at it, finding a text from Sherlock.

_I'm going to interview Miss McLeod. Wait for me at 221B. SH_

She frowned at the text incredulously before replying, and John caught her expression, making him smirk, knowingly.

"Sherlock?" he guessed as she still typed.

"Yes," she replied, sending the message and resuming petting Caesar who was falling asleep in her lap.

_I'm bathing Caesar, then myself, then having a nap. I haven't gotten much sleep since I met you, Mr. Holmes_

"Can't be without you long, can he?" John smirked, making her smirk back as her phone buzzed again. "Case in point."

"Stuff it, John," she laughed, making him smile before he turned forward and she looked to her phone while he spoke to the officer driving them.

_Then I'll meet you in 223A, Miss Yule. Leave the door unlocked. SH_

She stared at the text for a moment in disbelief, wondering if her eyes were playing tricks on her. Had he really just said that?! She quickly dialed his number and pressed her phone to her ear. She was _not _about to have this conversation through text, no matter how much he preferred it.

"_Miss Yule?_"

"Mr. Holmes, I don't know what you think our relationship allows and does _not _allow, but I am _not _letting you encroach on my time to relax after you've had me traipsing all over London!" she hissed into the phone, not noticing John frown into the rear view mirror as Caesar lifted his head to look at her. "What makes you think I would even let you into my flat after what you did?!"

"_What I did?_" he asked, and she knew he was frowning.

"Yes, _Sherlock_, you told that lunatic woman to shoot me!" she snarled, and that made John actually turn in his seat to look at her but she kept her head bowed, not noticing him. "And now you expect me to just let you into my home?! And for what, anyway?"

"_Is that not what people in relationships do?_" he wondered. "_John used to spend the night at his significant other's homes all the time._"

"_Bloody hell—! __Relationship__?!_"

"Lestrade is there with you, I see," Quennel sighed after hearing the detective shriek over the phone.

"_Your tone is unjustified, considering __you__ called __me__, Miss Yule_," he retorted. "_In any case, to answer your question, I was going to visit to explain the details of my…acquaintance with Moriarty_."

Quennel was silent for a moment as she ruefully picked at Caesar's fur before she muttered, "Oh. Well…I suppose that's as good a reason as any."

"_As for my comment to Miss McLeod, I can assure you, if the gun had been loaded, I never would have said such a thing, even to call her bluff. I could see it in her eyes that she would have killed you, given the chance. Her contacting Moriarty to help her with this scheme proves that._"

"I guess that's as close as you'll come to an apology," she sighed, keeping her gaze on Caesar, still laying his head in her lap. "Fine. I guess you're forgiven."

"_How gracious of you, Miss Yule_," she heard him smirk on the other end.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Sherlock?! relationship?! did he really just say that?! I have some crazy stuff planned for later. oh, you have no idea. reviews?


	21. Gunshots and Stitches

**A/N:** new chappie! enjoy!

* * *

><p><em><strong>Chapter 21: Gunshots and Stitches<strong>_

Lestrade pulled his car up to the Yard, among the other officer's cars and climbed out, Sherlock following him.

"Right, you can have five minutes with her _after_ I get a crack at her, yes?" Lestrade told Sherlock as they approached the car Miss McLeod was sitting in.

"Fine," Sherlock nodded, tugging his collar on his coat up a Lestrade dragged the red-head out of the car.

She struggled against his hand gripping her arm and her handcuffs as Lestrade pulled her toward the door of the building, Sherlock trailing behind them. The other officers climbed out of their cars, the steps, a man in a hat set low over his head marched up along with them. He brushed past Sherlock, making him frown before he instantly deduced him and his intention, but he was too late.

"_Gun_!"

Three shots rang out after the shout, and a scream sounded after the shots as people scattered.

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><p><em>223A Baker Street...<em>

"John, you really don't have to help," Quennel insisted, using her good hand to scrub Caesar with the soap and suds in his fur, John helping as well. "I could've done this myself."

"It was this, or wait around for Sherlock," he smirked as they knelt next to the tub in her bathroom, Caesar sniffing at John's jumper as they scrubbed the dog down.

"Why didn't you go with him to interrogate the mistress?" she wondered.

"He'll tell me about it later," he shrugged. "He doesn't need me for that bit."

Quennel nodded in understanding before turning on the water in the tub to start rinsing Caesar off, John rinsing his hands and heading to the linen closet for towels, passing the telly that was reporting breaking news. He grabbed some towels but stopped on his way back to the bathroom when he saw the news on the television.

"Quennel…" he called, warily. He remained where he was as he heard Quennel tell Caesar to sit and stay before she made her way into the lounge, frowning at him in wonder before he nodded to the telly. "You need to see this."

She frowned in wonder at him before looking to the screen and stopping dead next to John. BBC news was reporting a shooting right outside Scotland Yard. The shooter killed a female suspect, shot another man in the shoulder, then killed himself.

"I'm calling Sherlock," John reported as Quennel hardly registered his words, still staring at the telly in shock. "It's ringing out. We'll head over to Bart's."

"That won't be necessary, John," Sherlock announced as he swept through the door to Quennel's flat, drawing their wide-eyed stares to him. "I'm quite alright, as you can see."

Quennel rushed past John and threw her good arm around Sherlock, making him grunt when she landed against his chest. He frowned down at her then looked to John who motioned that he wrap an arm around her, but instead, the sleuth lifted a hand to patted the top of her head where she snuggled her cheek against his chest.

"I was so worried about you," she breathed before pulling back a bit to look up at him with huge eyes. "The news said someone was shot."

"It was Lestrade," Sherlock replied, making both Quennel and John stare back at him in wide-eyed shock. "He said he was alright. It was only the shoulder. He was taken to St. Bart's."

"Don't you think we should go see him?" Quennel wondered, glancing between Sherlock's frown and John's gaze of thought.

"He's being treated," Sherlock shrugged, drawing their attention to him. "I don't believe there is any need to see him. Besides, we'll be there tomorrow when I escort you to your appointment. We may visit him then, if you'd like."

"Fine," Quennel sighed, before the all frowned at the sound of wet footsteps heading their way. "Oh, no."

They all looked down to see Caesar trotting toward them and stop to shake the excess water and soap from his fur, making the three cringe and shout in distaste when it flew everywhere.

"Oh, Caesar!" Quennel groaned when he stopped, trying to shake her hands and clothes dry, as did Sherlock and John.

"Mongrel!" Sherlock snarled, flapping out his coat.

"Certain you still want him?" John couldn't help but chuckle as Quennel grabbed Caesar's collar to pull him back toward the bathroom.

"At least it wasn't mud!" Quennel called back, making John laugh heartily as Sherlock glared at him.

"I take it you don't mind helping Miss Yule?" Sherlock noticed, making John look back at him with a slight frown before he rolled his eyes.

"Oh, Sherlock, don't start," John pleaded. "There's no need for you to be jealous. She's off limits to me, alright? I see how you look at each other."

"Jealous?" Sherlock frowned. "Why would I be jealous?"

"Don't play dumb with me," John smirked. "I'm not interested in her in the slightest, mostly because I knew she was far more suited to you from the moment we met her."

"Did you?" Sherlock hummed, glancing toward the bathroom when Quennel giggled before the sound of a hairdryer could be heard.

"Yes," John nodded, still smirking at his best friend, then frowned when Sherlock turned to head out of the flat. "Oi! Where you going?"

"Tell Miss Yule I'll be here to escort her to Bart's _on time _in the morning, if she can manage it," Sherlock replied, opening the door again.

"Fine, but where are you—?"

John was cut off when Sherlock stepped out, shutting the door behind him. He sighed before heading back to the bathroom with the towels to help Quennel.

* * *

><p><em>The Next Morning...<em>

"Thank you so much for watching him," Quennel smiled at Andy who was kneeling in front of her to let Caesar nuzzle and lick his face, loving every second of it. "I don't know how he is left alone yet, and I'm not sure how long I'll be. I'll be sure to pay you back, I promise."

"Don't you even think it, beautiful," Andy grinned, standing tall but still scratching Caesar's head as he sat and leaned heavily on his leg. "We'll watch him whenever you need it, free of charge."

"Until I'm back to work, then I'll pay you when you watch him," she corrected. "I don't take hand-outs."

Andy raised his hands in surrender with a smile just as William came into view, scratching Caesar's head as well.

"You got a ride to hospital, lass," he hoped, catching Caesar's attention as he scratched him behind his ears.

"Sherlock's…'escorting' me in a cab," she nodded, smiling shyly as Andy's eyes widened at her, William giving a knowing nod and a wink. "Alright, take those looks off your faces. This could go terribly wrong if we're not careful. It is _Sherlock_, after all."

"Don't let him hear you say that," Andy chuckled and Quennel rolled her eyes just as her mobile went off with a text. She pulled the phone out to look at the text, snickering when she read who it was that texted her and Andy guessed who it was, asking, "Are his ears burning?"

"With all that cold blood running through his veins, I'd say they were at least freezer burned," she smirked, reading the text and Andy laughed heartily.

_I'm waiting outside with a cab. In your own time, Miss Yule, but do hurry up SH_

"Oh, this man and his contradictions," she sighed before tucking her phone away and looking to Andy. "You're sure you'll be alright with him?"

"Of course we will," Andy grinned, scratching Caesar's head again as he still leaned on him. "He's a big teddy bear. We'll all get along just fine."

Quennel smiled and leaned forward to give Caesar a goodbye pat on the head before turning to head out the door of her building. Sherlock stood next to a cab, the back door already open, cutting a very handsome silhouette with his coat collar pulled up and his hands in his coat pockets, showing off his profile as he looked to the street before turning back to her as she approached.

"How very prompt, Miss Yule," he smirked, slightly as he entreated her into the cab with a wave of his hand before holding it out to her to help her in.

"Your text seemed to urge me to shift before you took off to St Bart's without me, Mr. Holmes," she smirked back, climbing into the cab.

"Oh, I would never dream of doing that," he shot back through a small smirk of his own as he climbed in, telling the cabby where they wanted to go. As soon as he sat back, Quennel shifted closer to lean her head on his shoulder, making him frown down at her in confusion before asking, "What exactly are you doing?"

"What you would call extending the intimacy," she smiled, lifting her good hand to take his, effortlessly lacing her fingers through his long ones.

"Sentiment?" he guessed, and she giggled before nodding with an affirmative hum, making him sneer and look out the window at the passing scenery. "You realize I am incapable of such a thing. Holding my hand does not make send my heart aflutter."

"Does me a world of good," she smiled then sighed, "I feel better already."

"John says your stitches on your leg will be taken out today, and Dr. Adams should take that sling off to let you use your hand," he reported. "I don't see why John couldn't do all that for you at Baker Street. He _is _a doctor. He could have taken care of all of this without us making a trip."

"You _really _don't want to see Lestrade, do you?" she smirked.

"I never said that," he retorted. "Although…I have a premonition he'll want me to visit and…say something to him."

"Like what?" she frowned, making him give a slight sneer before he looked back at her when he felt her staring at him. "Sherlock? What is he expecting you to say?"

He gave a small sigh before looking back out the window and replying, "He may have…shoved me out of the way of a bullet fired by the gunman at Scotland Yard. A bullet that would have missed me in any case."

"That's _all_ you have to say after he saved your life?! 'The bullet would've missed, anyway'?!" she shot back, incredulously, making him look to her with a frown of wonder. "Sherlock, can you even _understand _the value behind taking a bullet for someone?"

"I understand that he will expect me to thank him, then use it against me to gain some sort of favor."

"He won't."

"And how can you be so sure of that?"

"Because I'll tell him not to."

Sherlock turned a wide-eyed stare of surprise at her as she shifted her head to rest it on his shoulder, still fiddling with his fingers.

"Sorry?" he frowned.

"I'll explain to him how difficult it was for you," she reported. "He won't take advantage if I ask him not to."

"And why would he listen to _you_?" he frowned in wonder.

"Because, Mr. Holmes, despite your effort to ignore it, I'm cute and a flirt, and DI Lestrade is a man," Quennel smirked.

"And what would you mean by that, Miss Yule?" he still frowned.

"Mean by what?"

"What you just said."

"He's a man, and I'm a woman."

"No, the part about my not noticing that you are, to quote you, 'cute and a flirt.'"

"Oh, had you?" she smirked, slyly.

"Of course I had," he retorted, making her shift to look up at him in wonder, meeting his gaze when he looked back to her. "Why would I not?"

"Well…because you're Sherlock," she replied. "You notice everything _else_ but not things like that."

"I may not know the Earth goes 'round the sun, or care at all whether it does or not, but that doesn't mean I don't appreciate the sight of a clear night sky, Miss Yule," he explained, making her stare at him with wide eyes before she frowned when he reached into one of his coat pockets. "I purchased this yesterday. I thought you may want a new one for Caesar."

Quennel frowned in wonder as he lifted a black, leather collar with a tag hanging off of it, her eyes widening as he handed it to her.

"I thought you would want your address on his collar should he become lost," he explained as she examined the collar. "It should be large enough. If you'd like we can stop by the shops on the way back to find a leash for him as well."

She frowned again at the collar again, making him gaze down at her in wonder.

"Something wrong?"

"I just…didn't think you could be so thoughtful," she honestly replied. "Don't you hate sentiment?"

"I thought it practical," he retorted. "You are in _need _of a new tag and leash for the beast."

Quennel couldn't help but smirk before tucking the collar into her coat pocket to turn back to playing with his fingers as his hand sat on his knee, and she murmured, "Thank you, Sherlock. You didn't have to."

"You're welcome, Miss Yule," he replied, looking out the window and she smiled up at him just as the cab came to a stop in front of St Bart's.

Sherlock climbed out first, still holding onto her hand to help her climb out after him before paying the cabby and sending him on his way. He wrapped her arm around his, making her frown up at him but he said nothing as he led her toward the entrance of St Bart's.

"Shall we go see Greg before or after my appointment?" she asked, glancing at a clock they passed before adding, "There's still time."

"Who's Greg?" Sherlock frowned as he opened the door and they stepped into the hospital.

"Lestrade," she frowned back. "Greg Lestrade. That's his name. I thought you knew that."

"I thought it was Glen," he admitted as they made their way to the front desk and she snickered before looking to the nurse.

"I'm here to see Doctor Adams for a check-up," she reported.

"Name?" the nurse asked, typing into her computer.

"Quennel Yule."

"Right," she nodded, shuffling through a drawer full of files and pulled one out before standing to step around the desk. "Follow me, please."

Quennel followed the nurse, Sherlock next to her, their arms still twined together. The nurse led them to an empty semi-private room where she looked over the file as Sherlock helped Quennel onto the bed.

"So, he's examining your thigh and hand today," the nurse stated the obvious, looking over the file before smiling at her and nodding, "He'll be in shortly."

Quennel nodded as the nurse stepped back out of the room to go find Doctor Adams and Sherlock glanced around before closing the curtain around the bed hanging from the rod on the ceiling. Quennel frowned at him as he swept it closed, giving them a bit more privacy.

"You should have worn shorts or a skirt of some kind," he muttered, making her frown deepen.

"Excuse me?"

"He'll make you take off your trousers to look at your leg," he replied through a tight jaw, making her smirk slyly at him.

"Is that your Sherlock way of saying you don't like the fact that the handsome doctor will be getting a good look at my legs and pants when I take my trousers off?" she smirked, making him turn to her with a slight glare.

"It's my way of saying I don't like the fact that the _lecherous_, _adulterous_, doctor will see you in your pants when you take your trousers off," he retorted.

"Jealous?"

"Possibly."

That took the smirk off of her face as her eyes widened at him, but before she could even think of what to say next, the curtain swept open and Doctor Adams walked in with her file.

"Ah, Miss Yule," he smiled, pulling the curtain shut again. "Lovely to see you again. How are you feeling?"

"Uh…" she trailed off a moment, still staring at Sherlock before she finally came to her senses and looked to Adams with a small smile. "Fine, I suppose. I haven't been using my hand much, and my leg feels a lot better than it did."

"Perfect!" Adams grinned, setting her file down to put on a pair of latex gloves. "Glad to hear that. Well, let me have a look at your hand first."

Adams stepped closer as she pulled her sling off, handing it to Sherlock who took it without a word. He watched Adams closely as he removed the bandage from Quennel's hand.

"Whoever replaced these bandages for you knows what's doing," Adams commended.

"Well, John Watson is a doctor," she smiled. "He's a friend of mine. He's been helping me out." Sherlock cleared his throat a bit dramatically, making her glance to him with a smirk before adding, "And Sherlock's been helping as well."

"Ah, yes, how are you Mr. Holmes?" Adams asked, glancing at him over his shoulder before looking back to his work.

"Still here," he retorted, making Quennel give him a slight glare.

As much as the thought of him being jealous made her somewhat happy (and a bit surprised) she knew it was going to make him even more of prat than he already was. She looked to Adams as the bandages were taken off fully and he examined the back of her hand first, then gently turning it over to examine the palm.

"Well, it looks like this is healing quite well," Adams nodded. "Flex your fingers."

Quennel did as he told her, making her wince only slightly before she could move her fingers easily.

"Once these stitches are out, you can have limited use of your hand," he instructed. "It has to regain its strength, so don't use it too much. No lifting anything too heavy with it, understood?"

"Yes, doctor," Quennel nodded as he lifted her file again.

"I'll be back in a moment," Adams reported. "Meantime, get ready to have me look at that leg."

Quennel nodded as he slipped through the curtain and she attempted to climb down from the bed again as Sherlock stepped up to next to her to help her.

"Please, don't be a prat when he comes back," she requested as she stood and he frowned down at her in wonder, holding onto her arm to steady her.

"Sorry?" he replied.

"Really, Sherlock, if looks could kill," she retorted, using one hand to try undoing her trousers. "I know you're jealous, but rein it in, yes? He's just a doctor doing his job."

"Might I add, a married doctor, cheating on his wife?" he shot back, but swallowed, silently when she started shoving her trousers down her hips while he held her arm to keep her from falling.

"I doubt he'll sleep with a patient," she muttered, struggling to shove her trousers down, making him sigh and roll his eyes before stepping in front of her. "What are doing? Sherlock—?!"

He said nothing as he tugged on her trousers to pull them to her ankles, taking her good hand in his to steady her.

"Step out of them," he ordered, keeping his gaze on the floor and she hesitantly did as he said, letting him kick the trousers aside before releasing her hand and pulling off his scarf, then shrugging off his coat. "You can use this to cover yourself."

She stared up at him, watching him as he kept his eyes averted from her legs when he swept the coat around her, buttoning it around her waist.

"I won't let him have the satisfaction of seeing you practically naked," he murmured, making her stare at him as he helped her back onto the bed. "His pupils dilated when he saw you."

"R-Really?" she sputtered as he adjusted the coat so that the wound on her thigh was the only thing visible. Her shock at his observation turned to amusement as she thought of something and she smirked at him when their gazes met. "You've seen me in my pants, Mr. Holmes."

"And _you _have seen me naked, Miss Yule," he shot back with a very slight smirk, making her smile widen as he stepped toward the chair near her bed and sat. "Was there some sort of complaint you wanted to make?"

"Not really," she shrugged, shaking her head. "Just an observation."

"Any other observations you would like to voice…Quennel?"

She smirked wide before biting her lower lip and humming, "You were blushing."

Sherlock's own smirk fell and he shifted in his seat before lifting his hands to steeple his fingers in front of his lips.

"You may have been averting your eyes, but you obviously caught a glimpse," she smirked before lifting a foot to shove his knee with the toes of her foot, but the only movement he made was when his knee moved with her shove. However, his piercing eyes shifted to her as she leaned forward with a Cheshire grin to ask, "Like anything you saw?"

Her smirk fell when something in his eyes shifted and she sat up again as he only stared at her with a smoldering gaze. She was about to speak when the curtain pulled back and her gaze shot to Doctor Adams as he stepped back in with a tray of utensils in his hand and a smile on his face before it fell when he looked at her.

"Oh," he blurted as Quennel shifted, suddenly uncomfortable as Sherlock sent a glare to him. "Right. As long as you're comfortable and I can see your injury. Speaking of which. Let's have a look."

Sherlock watched Adams very closely as the Doctor examined her leg, something in him boiling over at the way he was touching her. However, he kept his place, noting how Quennel was watching him as well before Adams pulled back and nodded.

"That looks to be healing rather nicely as well," Adams nodded, reaching for a small pair of scissors on the tray. "I'm just going to remove these stitches, and I'll call you for your next checkup, alright?"

"Sounds fine," Quennel nodded as he began his work. As he started cutting her mobile buzzed in her pocket, making her frown and fumble with Sherlock's coat to pull it out and look at the caller ID. It was Scarlett. Frowning she pressed it to her ear and called, "Hello? Scarlett? You alright?"

"_Quennel, it's mum and dad_," Scarlett replied, sounding panicked. "_Alex says they're not answering the door. I think something's wrong!_"

"Ok, don't panic," Quennel urged, making Adams and Sherlock look to her in concern. "Where are you?"

"_I'm at mum and dad's…Alex is here too, but he went to get help_."

"Did you look for the spare key?"

"_Spare key?_"

"Under the potted cactus."

Quennel heard shuffling and the sound of pottery on stone before Scarlett's cry of, "_It's here!_"

"Go inside and tell me what you see."

Scarlett's panicked panting sounded from the mobile, along with a lock being inserted, followed by a door opening. A sigh of relief came through after a whimper of sudden emotion.

"_They're here_," Scarlett shuddered, making Quennel let out a sigh of her own. "_They're off the wagon again. Dad's passed out on the sofa and mum's on the floor. They're still breathing. Jesus, she's got a needle in her hand, Quennel!_"

"Alright, one of you has to get them to hospital."

"_Alex was gonna bring an ambulance_."

"Good. You don't have to stay—"

"_I'll stay till he comes back. I'll find out where they're being taken and send you the information so you can see them._"

"Thanks, Scarlett. Do you need me there now?"

"_No, I think we've got this covered. It's not like this hasn't happened before._"

"Yeah…" Quennel sighed, glancing to Sherlock as he watched her closely just as Adams finished pulling the stitches from her leg.

"_Is it terrible that we're actually used to this?_" Scarlett wondered, drawing Quennel's attention back to the conversation.

"Terrible? No?" she replied, thinking back on how she ended up with these wounds and all she'd seen since naught but a week ago. "A shame, maybe."

"_Yeah…I'd better let you go for now._"

"Call me later. Or text."

"_Yeah. Bye._"

"Bye."

Quennel hung up just as Adams stood tall and held out his hand for hers, which she gave to him, hesitantly.

"Scarlett?" Sherlock asked, and she only gave a nod. "About your parents."

Another nod.

"They've gone off the wagon?"

This time she hesitated before giving a sad, slow nod as Adams cut at the stitches on the back of her hand and she finally replied, "Alex was getting an ambulance. Scarlett will probably take off after they get there and Alex will stay with them."

"Siblings?" Adams guessed and she gave a nod.

"I'm the adopted one, though," she smiled, sweetly, just as he'd finished up.

"There, now, let's get you bandaged up," he smiled, lifting the roll of bandages from the tray. "Remember what I told you. Limited use and nothing too heavy."

"Yes, doctor," Quennel nodded. "By the way, could you tell me where Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade is? He's here with a gunshot wound. He's a friend of mine and I wanted to go visit."

"Um…yes," Adams nodded, still wrapping her hand. "Take a left and straight down the hall. He's in recovery in room 305."

"Thank you," Quennel nodded just as he finished up, bid her goodbye then left the room, leaving the curtain drawn. "Sherlock, could you help me?"

Sherlock stood without a word and helped her off the bed then lifted her trousers to help her into them.

"Do you need to go to your parents' house?" he asked as she stepped into her trousers, using his shoulder for support.

"No," Quennel sighed. "I'll visit them later."

She froze when her feet were on the ground and Sherlock slowly stood, bringing her trousers up with him, and she didn't fail to notice his index fingers dragging along her skin on the inside of the hem, making her eyes meet his when he stood tall. Her gaze fell to his lips as she licked hers when he began buttoning up her trousers. She never knew that putting _on _clothes could be almost as riveting as taking them off.

"Lestrade will be happy to see you're healing," Sherlock murmured, making her eyes meet his again as he unbuttoned his coat and slowly pulled it from her shoulders. "He was rather worried about you."

"Well…" she breathed, trailing off a moment as she looked over his face. "I was stabbed…twice."

"Yes, unfortunately I recall," he muttered, making her frown before he pulled her by the hand out the door, his coat and scarf hanging from his other arm.

It suddenly hit her as to why he was acting this way. Being so attentive and telling her things she would never have believed she'd hear from the high-functioning sociopath that was Sherlock Holmes.

He felt responsible for her kidnapping and everything that followed it.

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><p><strong>AN:** I'm ashamed to say I almost forgot about the plot arch with Quennel's family...almost, but not quite. then I remembered and was waiting for the right time to bring it up again. reviews?


	22. Apologies

**A/N:** sorry I took so long! blocks and work and life really take up time :/ new chappie1 enjoy!

* * *

><p><em><strong>Chapter 22: Apologies<strong>_

"Oi! Quennel! You're looking lovely as ever!" Lestrade grinned from his bed when Quennel knocked on his open door. She stepped in with a bright smile, Sherlock stalking in behind her and Lestrade's grin changed to a mischievous smirk when he saw him as the couple stepped toward his bed. "Did Sherlock escort you here because of that handsome Adams doctor?"

"Very observant, Detective Inspector," Quennel smirked back, glancing at his right arm in the sling. "Don't tell me they kept you here for that scratch."

"Yeah, but the nurses like me," Lestrade grinned with a wink, making her give a chuckle before he looked to Sherlock who stood next to Quennel, silently. "Hello, Sherlock."

"Grant," Sherlock nodded in greeting, making Lestrade roll his eyes as Quennel tried and failed to hold back a smirk.

"_Greg_, Sherlock," she muttered over her shoulder. "His name is Greg."

"Ah, right," Sherlock nodded, shortly. "Greg."

"Anyway, we came to see how you were doing," Quennel smiled back at Lestrade. "I heard the suspect in the last case was shot. I'm sorry you didn't get her to the court case."

"Yeah, well…" Lestrade trailed off with a shrug of his good shoulder. "Case closed, that's what matters, I suppose. But I'll have to get your statements on what happened back in the woods at the park."

"Still working, even from your sickbed?" Quennel smirked and shook her head. "Shame on you! You need to rest!"

"I'm almost outta here anyway," Lestrade retorted, waving her off.

She smiled and looked over her shoulder at Sherlock who rolled his eyes before she looked back at the DI to smile, "I dragged Sherlock by because I heard he has something to say to you."

"Quennel," Sherlock growled when Lestrade gave a smug grin as he looked to him and she turned to Sherlock with a wink before giving a stern look to the patient.

"Be nice, you," she scolded, pointing to him with a chiding index finger and making him frown at her. "Wipe the smug smirk off your face and behave."

Lestrade opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again with a slight pout, making Quennel nod before she looked to Sherlock and gestured that he say what she expected him to. Sherlock frowned at her, dumbfounded at her before he looked to Lestrade and quickly collected himself, clearing his throat and clasping his hands behind his back as he squared his shoulders.

"I have…been informed that I must show some gratitude for what you've done for me is in order…even though the bullet would have—Oof!"

Sherlock jerked forward slightly when Quennel's elbow rammed into his stomach as she still smiled at Lestrade who gave a small smirk, but when she glared at him, the smirk fell.

"As…I was saying," Sherlock muttered, rubbing the spot where she'd elbowed him as he straightened to his full height. "What I'm meant to say is…th-thank you…for moving me out of the path of the bullet and…" He waved a hand in front of himself as if trying to find the right word before waving it off and finishing, "taking…said bullet for me. I've been informed that particular reaction is rather selfless…if reckless."

"And that's about all the sentiment on the matter that you're going to get, Greg," Quennel smiled, patting Sherlock's arm and gently pushing him toward the exit. "Since you're on the mend, we'll leave you to it. Just a quick hello and we're off."

"I'll be seeing you, then," Lestrade called as Quennel shoved Sherlock toward the exit and she followed close behind with a wave and a smile to him.

"Is there a reason you're ushering us out so quickly after the fuss you made about seeing him?" Sherlock asked her, letting her shove him forward and out of the room. She looped her arm around one of his as he strolled toward the exit of St Bart's, and he looked to her with a frown as she only held onto his arm.

"Because I decided I wanted you all to myself," she grinned, unable to keep herself from doing so when she noticed the nurses and women in the hospital all staring at her in envy that she had such a tall, handsome, not to mention _famous _man on her arm. Her phone buzzed once, making her sigh as Sherlock stopped them, watching her pull her phone from her pocket and look it over.

"Scarlett again," he observed, watching her reaction to the text she was looking at on her phone. "Are you certain you don't want to check on your parents?"

"No…" Quennel replied distractedly, not looking at him. "She has a handle on it."

"Miss Yule, I've seen the two of you together, and I must say, of the two of you, _you_ are the one with steadier nerves," he reported, making her finally look up at him in wide-eyed wonder. "Perhaps she would feel comforted by your presence?"

She blinked at him in shock, making him frown at her in confusion before his eyes shifted and he finally met her gaze again.

"Quennel?" he called, lifting a hand to snap his fingers in front of her face and making her jerk back and blink rapidly before looking back at him with a frown.

"Mr. Holmes, your thoughtfulness seems to know no bounds, today," she finally replied, still frowning. "Stop it. You're scaring me."

"Where have they taken your parents, Miss Yule?" he questioned, irritably as he realized she was teasing him.

"The Promis Counselling Clinic," she reported as they made their way toward the exit of St Bart's and she took his arm again. "Thank you, Sherlock. You don't have to go. If you'd rather head back to Baker Street, you can leave me there and I can find my own way home. I'm sure Scarlett won't mind—"

"If you'd rather I _not_ meet our family, just say so," he cut in, making her frown up at him as he opened the door for her to head outside.

"I never said that," she replied as they came to the curb and he tried hailing a cab. "I know you don't do domestics, so I thought you'd want to go back to Baker Street and find a case to solve or do…whatever it is you do when you don't have a case."

A cab rolled up next to them, letting Sherlock open the door and entreat Quennel inside with an unenthused gesture. He didn't say anything as he only stood next to the door and waited for her to climb inside, making her smirk and step closer to climb in. He took her arm to help her inside before climbing in himself and shutting the door, telling the cabby where to take them.

"You just don't want John and Mrs. Hudson to scold you for leaving me alone, do you?" Quennel smirked as the cab started rolling.

"That thought had crossed my mind, but I could care less whether they did or not," he admitted, making her roll her eyes, but she still smirked as he resumed, "However…the thought of something happening to you out of my care was the definitive reason for my decision to stay with you. I haven't met Alex, and although Scarlett seems harmless enough, the fact that she _is_ quite harmless makes her an unsuitable candidate for your protection."

Quennel stared at him with wide eyes before smiling and wrapping her arm around his to lean on his shoulder

"For someone who hates sentiment, you _can_ be quite sentimental," she smirked, making him sneer. "First escorting me to hospital, then going through all the trouble to get Caesar a new collar and now you _refuse_ to leave me alone with my siblings because you fear I won't be properly protected? All, so, very sentimental, Mr. Holmes."

"Please…stop," he grumbled, making Quennel chuckle before snuggling her cheek against his arm. They were quiet for a moment as he stared out the window at the scenery they were whizzing by in the cab before he spoke again. "You'll be needing things for the mongrel, won't you? Food…supplies…treats."

His dramatic enunciation of the last word made her give a small laugh.

"Yes, I will," she nodded, shifting her head on his shoulder to look up at him. "Are you offering to go shopping for him with me?"

"Perhaps I should leave that to John when we return to Baker Street," he muttered, making her pout.

"Oh, come on, Sherlock," she drawled, hugging his arm. "It could be fun."

"That, I do _not_ believe," he retorted, turning to look down at her just as she smiled up at him in return.

"Maybe because you've never given it a try," she shot back. "I bet you've never been shopping. I mean _proper_ shopping. As in buying things you need."

"John always does the shopping," he replied, turning away from her scrutinizing gaze. "And Mrs. Hudson."

"How did you survive before you met those two?" she laughed, snuggling against his shoulder again. "I'll bet you were a scrawny thing."

Quennel poked Sherlock's stomach lightly, making him jump with a start and stare at her with wide-eyed shock. She only winked at him, making him frown at her in utter confusion.

"What was that for?"

"Extending the intimacy."

"By assaulting me?"

"Oh, don't be so dramatic. It didn't even hurt, it just startled you. You can do it to me, if you like?"

She smirked suggestively, making his frown deepen as he tried to decipher her ulterior meaning.

"My god, John was right," she snickered.

"I'm sorry?"

"You're a genius…but you're absolutely thick."

The cab came to a stop, making him look outside at the clinic before she sat up to pay the cabby. Sherlock swiftly opened the door and helped her out, letting her cling to his arm as he shut the door and waved the cabby off. They were strolling toward the entrance of the clinic when she stopped them both before they stepped in, making him frown down at her in wonder.

"I have to warn you about my family," she explained, making his frown deepen. "You've met Scarlett, she's harmless enough, as you've said, but my brother and parents can be…horrendously disagreeable."

"Why would you need to warn me?" he wondered, making her frown back at him. "I've been described as horrendously disagreeable by several people. I'm sure I'll fit right in."

Sherlock grabbed the handle of the door and pushed it open to pull a confused Quennel inside with him and strolled up to the front desk.

"Can I help you?" the nurse on the other side of the desk asked.

"We're looking for…" Sherlock trailed off before turning to Quennel who seemed to come out of her confused haze. "Your parents' names?"

"Oh!" she chirped, looking to the nurse who was frowning between the two. "Right…um, Roger and Emily McAdams. They'll have been brought in by either my brother or my sister, Scarlett or Alex."

The nurse nodded and checked her computer as Quennel glanced around the lobby, looking for either Scarlett or Alex.

"It seems Alex McAdams admitted them," the nurse explained, drawing their attention to her again. "He's still here I believe. They're also being visited by a Scarlett as well. There's a list of visitors allowed in, and it's very restricted. Scarlett McAdams, Alex McAdams and Quennel Yule."

"That's me," Quennel nodded.

"May I see some ID?" the nurse requested, and Quennel slowly, but obediently did so. Sherlock tapped his foot impatiently as the nurse nodded in approval and handed Quennel her card back, telling her where both her parents were. "Alex is still here with Mr. McAdams, and Scarlett signed in to sit with Mrs. McAdams."

"Thank you," Quennel nodded, and made to head toward the hall, deciding to check on her mother first, Sherlock right behind her…but he was stopped by the nurse.

"Sir, you can't go in," she called, making them both stop and turn to her. "You're not on the list of visitors."

"Just stay here," Quennel murmured, making him frown down at her. "I'll be fine. Or you can go back to Baker Street—"

"Miss Yule, I believe we've been through this conversation once before," he cut in. "I'll stay here, if I must, but I will be here when you return."

Quennel smiled and nodded, taking one of his hands and squeezing it affectionately, making him frown at her in wonder.

"Thank you," she whispered before releasing his hand and turning to head toward her mother's room.

Sherlock sneered as he watched her walk away before turning to march toward a chair and plop himself down in it. He dug out his phone to look over his inbox to see what kind of cases were there, and perhaps solve them without moving an inch, until she returned.

Quennel made her way through the halls to her mother's room, and when she walked into the open door, she stopped in the threshold in wide-eyed shock at seeing her mother strapped to the bed sleeping, Scarlett sitting on the other side of her, facing the door. Scarlett's gaze shot to the door, her tear-filled eyes meeting Quennel's wide-eyed stare at the scene.

"Nelly," Scarlett whispered before standing and racing around the bed toward Quennel. She threw her arms around Quennel and hugged her close, Quennel wincing slightly at the pain in her leg as she did, but she said nothing. Instead she hugged her in return before Scarlett stepped back to look into her eyes…and Quennel noticed something she hadn't seen before. "I'm so glad you're here—?"

"What happened to your face?" Quennel demanded, examining the bruise over her left cheek, the purple and blue colors marring her pale skin. Rage bubbled up in her as she glared at Scarlett and demanded, "Who did this?"

Scarlett shook her head as she turned her back on Quennel, hugging herself.

"Scarlett, tell me who hit you!" Quennel demanded, reaching for her sister and turning her to look her in the face again. "Was it that man you were on a date with?"

"No," Scarlett shuddered, lowering her face from view so that some of her hair hid it. "You won't like the answer. You won't believe me."

"Why wouldn't I believe you?" Quennel frowned, her hands on Scarlett's shoulders as she tried to catch her gaze. "Who did it?"

Scarlett gave a small sob before finally lifting her head, wiping away her tears as she began, "Well…do you remember when I called you and said Alex was with me and mum and dad's?"

Quennel nodded, hanging on her every word.

"Well…before we got into the house, Alex wanted to talk to me, but I didn't want to because…I can't forgive him for what he did to me when we were kids and when I told him, he—" Scarlett choked on a sob before swallowing the lump in her throat and sputtering, "…he-he got so angry he…he back-handed me."

"Alex?!" Quennel gasped in disbelief. "What the hell is _wrong_ with him?! What happened between you two that you can't forgive him?!"

Scarlett shook her head violently, backing away and tuning to their mother, sobbing, "I can't tell you! They'll hurt mum if I tell!"

Quennel frowned, stepping closer to Scarlett and softening her voice as she asked, "_Who_ will hurt mum?"

"Alex and dad," Scarlett replied, still staring at their sleeping mother.

Quennel felt her blood run cold. The threat triggered memories she'd thought were long suppressed and now turned into a nightmare. But they were real. More real than any nightmare she could've thought up. That threat had been told to her, but by someone much more terrifying to think they would give a threat like that. She knew now why her sister was so afraid of Alex, only she had a better out than she had from her oppressor. Alex was Scarlett's adopted brother…Quennel's boogeyman was her own adopted father.

"Alex isn't going to hurt you ever again, Scarlett," Quennel murmured, making Scarlett turn to her with wide, violet eyes and she knew Quennel had put it together. "We'll _both _be safe from now on, I promise. He won't ever touch you again. Sherlock is with me. He's waiting in the lobby. Tell him I told you to stay with him. He'll protect you."

"What are you going to do?" Scarlett shuddered, then sniffled.

"What I should've done a long time ago," Quennel replied, pulling her sister in for a hug and a kiss to her head before releasing her and turning to march toward the room her father was staying in.

Roger McAdams was sitting up in his bed with an IV in his arm as he talked to Alex who was sitting next to his bed. Both men looked up at her when she marched into the room, glaring between the two of them as she shut the door behind her.

"Quennel," Roger grinned, but she ignored him as she marched toward Alex, who stood…only to be clocked by her right hook. "Whoa!"

"How _dare_ you hit Scarlett?!" she snapped as Alex recovered from stumbling back a step or two. "How dare you even _touch_ her?!"

"Told you about that bit, did she?" Alex guessed casually, rubbing his jaw and wincing when he touched the cut on his lip.

"She didn't have to," she growled.

"Takes one to know one, eh?" Alex smirked, smugly.

Quennel lifted her fist again, but this time, he caught her wrist as he glared down at her.

"That's enough, Quennel," Roger called in a low tone of warning, making a shiver run down her spine as she noted the tone was familiar from when she was younger.

"You were always off limits, ya know?" Alex smirked down at her, his grip tightening on her wrist. "How about now, dad?"

"Go ahead," Roger smirked, making Quennel struggle to be free of him. "What's yours is mine, son."

"You're both sick!" Quennel screamed and was about to call out for a nurse, or anyone, to help, but Alex spun her around and planted a hand over her mouth, holding her to him.

"Don't struggle too much, and it won't hurt," he murmured in her ear.

Before she could start struggling again, she heard the sound of glass shattering and he jerked suddenly, his grip loosening on her. She frowned as she turned to watch him fall to the floor, blood pooling from his head. Before roger could give a cry he flopped back onto his bed, bleeding from his chest, and Quennel couldn't fathom why she hadn't heard a sound. She raced out of the window's view and pressed herself against the wall before peeking out only slightly to see who had fired the shots, but she saw nothing.

Her eyes turned to the two dead bodies, shock making her shake and give a choked sob as she sunk to the floor. No matter what they had done, or how warped they both were, they had still been her family. She was trying to collect herself when her phone suddenly buzzed in her pocket, making her shakily reach in and pull it out, not bothering to look at the caller ID before she answered.

"_Don't cry, poor little Quennel_," a soft, Irish accent murmured into her ear, making her frown and shudder from the chill running up her spine.

"Who…Who is this?" she shuddered.

"_Just a little helper_," the voice replied. "_I've taken care of your problem. No more big brother and daddy to hurt little Quennel and little Scarlett. Now __you__ have to do something for __me__. Don't worry, it's nothing too terrible. I just need a little birdy in the Baker Street nest for a little while._"

She registered his meaning right away and realized, breathlessly, "You want me to spy on Sherlock?"

"_Ooh, very clever, aren't we?_" the voice commended. "_That is __exactly__ what I need you to do._"

"And if I refuse?" she shot back, sounding braver than she felt as she glanced out the window to her left, but unable to see anything.

"_Well, then, my friend Sebastian here will send you to the same place he just sent daddy and big brother_," the voice retorted. "_And maybe even little sister and mummy can join too! One, big, happy family_."

That made Quennel grit her teeth in rage and hiss, "Tell me who you are!"

"_Oh, alright, since you insist_," the voice replied, but the line went dead just as the door to the room opened, slowly. A man in jeans and a hoodie stepped in, holding a cell phone, his brown eyes surveying the scene before they found Quennel and he gave a smile.

"Moriarty…_James_ Moriarty." His smile turned to a grin. "God, I have _always_ wanted to say that."

"Oh, my god," she breathed, her eyes wide in terror.

"Heard of me, have you?" Moriarty grinned, pocketing the phone before stepping toward her. She tried to scramble away, but the pain she was still feeling from her previous wounds made it hard for her to move properly as he crouched in front of her. "Oh, no, don't get up. So listen, I need to know everything Sherlock is up to, and the last girl I got to work on this for me…didn't work out so well in the end. But I have a feeling you'll do the trick."

"I don't work for psychos," she retorted, breathlessly.

"See, now that's where _I_ think you're wrong," he argued. "Because…I know your mummy is, and little sister will be here, frequently visiting, so all you need to know is that I will have men watching this facility day and night, and if you even _think_ of giving up on me, or telling Sherlock, or you don't get to me at the time I expect you to…there's gonna be a family reunion in the land of the dead, and _everyone's_ invited."

Quennel swallowed the bile ready to spew from her mouth at his words and the situation she was in.

"So, be a good girl and call Uncle James every night with a report on the boyfriend, ok?" Moriarty smiled before standing and digging his hand into another pocket to hand her a card with only a phone number on it. "Burn that after you save it in your phone, alright?"

She sneered at the card before snatching it, knowing she had no other choice if she wanted to protect what was left of her family and Moriarty turned to stroll towards the door.

"That nurses will be here any minute," he warned. "The surveillance tapes will be fixed up so it won't look like _you_ murdered them, but just so you know…they can just as easily be fixed the other way. Just a little more incentive for you to behave. Bye!"

The last word being sung out as he strolled out the door gave Quennel a sick feeling. She didn't bother getting up and instead shoved the card into her pocket then screamed bloody murder just as she heard the nurses' footsteps racing down the hall. Her performance of shock and despair surprised even herself. She didn't know she could fake it so easily, but she was grateful it got her out of the room and into the lobby. Sherlock was standing with Scarlett before the girl raced toward Quennel as she was escorted out by the nurses.

"I'll need to see the crime scene," Sherlock insisted, and almost sailed past them, but Quennel grabbed onto his coat sleeve, stopping him and making him frown down at her incredulously.

"Sherlock, don't," she urged. "They're calling the police, just let them handle it."

"But this is _your_ family, Quennel," he retorted. "I thought you would _want_ me on the case. The game is on—"

"Not my family, Sherlock!" she snapped, making his frown at her deepen, but she only shook her head as Scarlett hung onto her. "Not my family. You won't use them for your amusement."

Sherlock scrutinized her, as he did when he was deducing, and she prayed he figured out everything she'd been through in that room so that she wouldn't have to run the risk of telling him and incurring Moriarty's wrath. Instead of saying a word he nodded, turning to her as Scarlett finally pulled back from hanging onto to Quennel enough to look her in the eye.

"Did you see anything?" she whispered.

"No," Quennel lied, smoother than she thought she would. "It all happened so fast…I couldn't get a good look at anything."

"The police will figure it out," Scarlett assured her.

"We'd better leave," Sherlock suddenly piped up, making both girls look up at him. "With my luck, they'll be sending Donovan _and_ Anderson both to investigate this scene. I'd rather _not_ deal with their drabble."

"Good idea," Quennel nodded. "I'm tired."

"Won't you have to stay to give a statement?" Scarlett wondered.

"They can come to her at Baker Street," Sherlock replied for her, taking her right hand into his as Scarlett wrapped her arm around Quennel's left arm.

Quennel ran through the events over and over again in her head, wondering if she'd just made a deal with the Devil…and at the same time, _knowing_ that she had.

_I'm sorry, Sherlock_, she thought to herself as they made their way out of the building and onto the street. _I know I'm betraying you…but I have to protect mum and Scarlett. Please…please forgive me._

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** I was gonna make that a big reveal MUCH later on...but I changed my mind. MORIARTY HAD RECRUITED A RELUCTANT SPY! reviews?


	23. Need a Case

**A/N:** new chappie! enjoy!

* * *

><p><em><strong>Chapter 23: Need a Case<strong>_

Quennel sighed as she sat in Sherlock's chair at 221 B Baker street, John sitting in his chair working on his laptop while she played with her phone. Caesar sat at her feet, lying dutifully and alert in case anything tried to attack his new master.

It had been a week since she'd met Moriarty, an event she decided to title 'the Incident.' Lestrade had taken her statement, and the CCTV recording had been altered, as Moriarty had promised, to make it look like a freak accident, and the next day Scarlett had come with them to help them shop for Caesar, letting him pick out all the things he wanted. Sherlock complained the entire time, but just for a while before they took Scarlett home, Quennel was able to forget everything and just be happy.

She felt a stab of guilt every time she texted him about Sherlock's activities and whereabouts in return for what he had done, and to keep her sister and mother alive. Her stomach roiled with each letter typed. She didn't dare call him. His voice scared her the most. That sinister, cool tone of his sounded natural for him, but so unnatural that it triggered something in her core…something she didn't dare investigate or question.

When a text appeared on her phone she frowned in wonder before opening it, noticing it was from Sherlock.

_You're not home SH_

_No, I'm not, Mr. Holmes. Should I be?_

She smirked as she hit send and giggled when there was a nearly instantaneous response.

_Yes, actually. Why are you not home? SH_

_I thought I'd visit with you and John, but you're not home either. Wasted trip. I'm in your chair._

_Your mongrel is with you? SH_

_Yes, Caesar is here. Where are you?_

_On the tube. Bloody cabs wouldn't drive me anywhere SH_

_Why not?_

When she didn't receive another text she guessed he was disembarking and making his way to 221 B. She glanced up at John as he typed at his laptop and couldn't help her next question.

"John, what is it you look at all day on that laptop?" she smirked, knowingly, making him frown up at her and they continued looking at each other until he rolled his eyes and turned back to his work.

"You've been around Sherlock too long," he muttered, making her laugh before her phone went off again and she looked at it in wonder. "Speak of the Devil?"

"Yep," she nodded, looking at the text from Sherlock.

_Keep the creature off my sofa and my chair SH_

_I just had him groomed. He won't leave much hair anywhere. Besides, he looks so adorable curled up on the sofa_

"He's complaining about Caesar," Quennel reported to John. "I thought he'd be a dog person."

"Not really sure," John admitted. "He seemed to like him at first."

A few moments later Caesar turned his head to the door, making Quennel frown at him before hearing footsteps pounding up the stairs. She looked to the door as well and gasped when she caught sight of Sherlock reaching the top of the stairs carrying a huge harpoon and bloody over his head and torso.

"Oh…my, god," she breathed as Caesar's hackles went up at the sight of Sherlock and the smell of blood.

"Well that was tedious," he blurted as John made a double take at the doorway then stared at Sherlock.

"What the bloody hell—?! You went on the tube like that?!" Quennel snapped.

"I told you, none of the cabs would take me," he shot back.

"Well no wonder, when you look like you've just committed a murder," John retorted.

"Please tell me that's not blood," Quennel hoped.

"Of course it is," Sherlock frowned. "Why wouldn't it be blood? Really, Miss Yule, I do hate it when you're so obtuse."

"Let me rephrase: Please tell me that's not _human_ blood," she replied.

"Of course not," Sherlock shot back before turning and heading down the hall to his room as Quennel sighed and stood, Caesar unmoving as he watched everything very closely, guessing that since his mistress was following the bloody man willingly, nothing was really wrong. Sherlock turned into the bathroom and set the harpoon in the tub as Quennel followed him in, making him frown in wonder when he turned to her. "Do you plan on watching me shower?"

"Now who's being coy?" she smirked, folding her arms in front of her. "You paraded around naked out the shower the first time I spent the night. Mind telling me why you're covered in not-human blood?"

"I was solving a case, you know this," he retorted, unbuttoning his shirt without a care that she was still in the room. "And it's pig's blood. I needed to calculate the precise angle needed to—

"I don't need to know, Sherlock," Quennel cut in before turning to head back down the hall, but she was stopped.

"Quennel," he called, making her freeze and turn back to him just as he stripped off his shirt and tossed it onto the floor. She stepped back into the threshold as he tugged at his watch to remove it. "You know I don't believe your father's and brother's deaths were just a freak accident. Just let me investigate and you'll have the truth."

She swallowed, her eyes shifting slightly before she glanced down the hall where John sat in the living room, now scratching Caesar behind the ears as the German Shepherd had crossed the room to sit at his feet. She stepped into the bathroom fully just as Sherlock set his watch on the sick and watched her with a frown as she closed the door behind her.

"What I'm about to tell you does _not_ leave this room, do you understand?" she began, and his frown deepened but he nodded. "I don't care why or how it happened. As much as they were my family, I'm glad they're gone. My father…did things to me when I was younger and Alex did the same things to Scarlett, and I'm sure you already know this by now, but I'm glad you haven't said a word about it and I'd appreciate your silence on the matter until the day I die. Understood?"

She met Sherlock's gaze before he nodded and started undoing his belt.

"Understood," he nodded. "And yes, I had figured it out some time ago, but John had enlightened me to the fact that certain things—"

"Before you drop your trousers, I'm leaving," she cut in, opening the door. "The next time I see you naked I'd rather it not be while you're covered in pig's blood."

"Reasonable," he nodded before she shut the door behind her and made her way down the hall again, stopping next to Caesar who looked up at her with a big doggy grin, unmoving from John's side.

"Traitor," she smiled, leaning down to scratch his head before making her way to the sofa where she laid down and opening her phone to search the news. "Another case solved by the brilliant Sherlock Holmes."

"And the brilliant Sherlock Holmes is going to need another case to keep him off those cigarettes," John added, staring at his laptop.

"You take the internet?" she guessed.

"You take the papers?" he replied.

"Done and done," she nodded, sitting up to grab the newspapers on the table and sift through them.

The two sat in comfortable silence as Sherlock showered and they searched the news for any cases they could find to interest him. A few moments later Sherlock marched out of the hall in clean clothes and his blue dressing gown, tossing the harpoon from one hand to the other as he paced in front of the sofa. Quennel still sifted through papers as he glanced at her, realizing what she was doing, then he glanced at John who still worked on his laptop, doing the same thing Quennel was.

"Nothing?" Sherlock asked, no one in particular as he still paced.

"Military coup in Uganda," John reported, making Sherlock hum in disinterest.

Quennel giggled, making him look to her in wonder and she glanced at him before lifting a newspaper and showing it to him, smirking, "You in the hat."

"Oh," Sherlock groaned, rolling his eyes as he still paced.

"Cabinet reshuffled," John added.

"Nothing of _importance_," Sherlock snapped before stopping and slamming the end of the harpoon down on the ground, shouting, "Oh, God!"

"Calm down," Quennel muttered, indifferently as she still sifted the papers.

"John, I need some. Get me some," Sherlock ordered, making her roll her eyes.

"No," John retorted without hesitation.

"Get me some," Sherlock demanded, trying to be sinister.

"No," John said again. "Cold turkey. We agreed. No matter what."

"Anyway, you paid everybody off," Quennel reminded him, tossing the papers and standing to grab Sherlock's laptop from the table. "No one within a two-mile radius will sell them to you."

"Stupid idea," Sherlock shot back as she sat down on the sofa again. "Who's idea was that?"

"Yours, Mr. Holmes," she sighed, typing at the laptop.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock shouted before setting the harpoon aside turning to tossing the room in his search for what he was looking for.

"Sherlock, you're doing _really_ well," John encouraged as Sherlock still searched through the papers with abandon. "Don't give now."

"Tell me where they are, Quennel! Please tell me," he ordered, making her glance up at him before turning back to the laptop. He stopped and looked to her, making her stop and look up at him, meeting a pleading expression, making her frown up at him. "Please."

"Nope," she blurted, looking back at the laptop, and Sherlock's expression dropped to boredom before he looked to John.

"John?"

"Can't help, sorry."

"I'll let you know next week's lottery numbers," Sherlock told him, making John chuckle and Quennel laughed loudly. "It was worth a try."

Sherlock dove toward the fireplace to toss the books and papers around, still searching, making Caesar jump to his feet and trot over to Quennel. The dog settled next to her feet and looked to the doorway when he noticed movement.

"Yoo hoo," Mrs. Hudson called before entering and Quennel waved before the landlady looked to Sherlock still at the fireplace.

"My secret supply," Sherlock called, still rummaging around and not looking at the door. "What have you done with m secret supply?"

"Eh?" Mrs. Hudson chirped in confusion.

"Cigarettes!" he called. "What have you done with them? Where are they?"

"You know you never let me touch your things!" she retorted, defensively. "Oh, chance would be a nice thing."

"I you _weren't_ their housekeeper," Quennel smirked.

"I'm not," Mrs. Hudson retorted as Sherlock growled and marched back toward the harpoon to grab it and toss it between his hands again. Quennel looked to John as he and Mrs. Hudson had a silent conversation and she turned back to Sherlock. "How about a nice cuppa and perhaps you could put away your harpoon?"

"I need something _stronger_ than tea! Seven percent stronger," he shot back then mumbled to himself before looking her over and pointing the harpoon at Mrs. Hudson, making her jump with a gasp as Caesar shot to his feet again, ready to defend the landlady if necessary, but Quennel reached out and grabbed his collar. "You've been to see Mr. Chaterjee again."

"Pardon?" Mrs. Hudson chirped.

"Here we go," Quennel muttered, pulling Caesar back when he shifted on his feet. "Caesar, sedersi." (Sit)

The dog sat, obediently, letting Quennel pet him reassuringly as Sherlock continued.

"Sandwich shop," he began, using the harpoon to point at the things he'd spotted, drawing John's attention as well. "That's a new dress, but there's flour on the sleeve. You wouldn't dress like that for baking."

"Sherlock," John called, warningly, but he continued.

"Thumbnail, tiny traces of foil. Been at the scratch cards again. We all know where that leads, don't we?" He took in a deep breath before resuming, "Hm, _Kasbah Nights_. Pretty racy first thing on a Monday morning. Wouldn't you agree? I've written a little blog on the identification of perfumes. It's on the website. You should look it up."

"Mr. Holmes," Quennel called, sternly, watching Mrs. Hudson's reactions as Sherlock crossed the room to the other window, setting the harpoon down.

"I wouldn't pin you hopes on the cruise with Mr. Chatterjee. He's got a wife in Doncaster that nobody knows about."

"_Sherlock_!" John and Quennel shouted as Caesar jumped to his feet again.

"Well, nobody except me!" Sherlock retorted, waving his hands sardonically.

"I don't know what you're talking about. I _really_ don't!" Mrs. Hudson cried before turning to march out the door and back to her flat, slamming the door behind her as Sherlock climbed onto his chair in the fetal position.

"What's the bloody hell was all that about?" John demanded.

"You don't understand," Sherlock sighed, rocking back and forth, slightly.

"Go apologize, Sherlock," Quennel ordered, making him freeze and look up at her with a frown of wonder.

"Apologize?" he echoed.

"Yes, I'm certain the concept is not _completely _lost on you," she shot back as Caesar settle once more.

"Oh, I envy you so much, Quennel," he sighed, making her narrow her gaze at his patronizing tone.

"Is that so?" she retorted.

"Clever as you are, your mind…it's so placid, straight forward, barely used," he replied, making her roll her eyes and turn back to the laptop. "Mine's like an engine, racing out of control. A rocket, tearing itself to pieces, trapped on the launch pad. I _need _a case!"

"You've just solve one by harpooning a dead pig, apparently!" John shot back.

"Oh, that was this morning," Sherlock retorted, jumping in his chair to sit properly in it, his fingers dancing rapidly on the arms and shifting his feet. "When's the next one."

John looked to Quennel as she shook her head and turned back to the laptop as he asked, "Anything on the website, Quennel?"

"Uh…" she trailed off for a moment, looking up at him before biting her lip, warily. "Not…really."

"Let me see!" Sherlock demanded, jumping up at racing toward her to yank the laptop away and read it. He read over one of them quickly then huffed and slapped the computer back into her lap. "Ridiculous."

"What is?" John wondered, looking to Quennel before she looked to the screen again and read at loud.

"'Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I can't find Bluebell anywhere. Please, please, please, can you help?'" Quennel read.

"Bluebell?" John echoed.

"A _rabbit_, John!" Sherlock shout back.

"Oh."

"Ah, but there's more," Sherlock added, with false enthusiasm. "Before Bluebell disappeared, it turned luminous. 'Like a fairy,' according to little Kirstie. Then the next morning, Bluebell was gone, hutch still locked, no sign of a forced entry."

Quennel couldn't help but laugh at his expressions and gestures, but frowned at him when he looked like he'd had a revelation.

"What am I saying? This is brilliant. Phone Lestrade. Tell him there's an escaped rabbit," Sherlock told Quennel, making her frown at him in confusion.

"See…I can't tell if you're serious or not," she explained, looking to John. "Is he serious?"

"I don't know," John admitted, looking to Sherlock. "Are you serious?"

"It's this…or Cluedo," Sherlock retorted, pacing by the window.

"God, no," Quennel sighed in exasperation.

"We are _never_ playing that again," John agreed.

"Why not?" Sherlock frowned in wonder as Quennel set the laptop aside.

"Because it's not actually possible for the victim to have done it, Sherlock," John retorted. "That's why."

"Well, that's the only possible solution," Sherlock shot back, defensively.

"Those aren't the rules," Quennel replied, tiredly.

"Well, then the rules are wrong!" Sherlock snapped, making her roll her eyes.

The doorbell rang, making everyone freeze and Caesar looked to the doorway, but didn't move as they glanced between each other.

"Single ring," John noted.

"Maximum pressure just under the half second," Sherlock added.

"Client, for you, lads," Quennel smiled, standing and stepping toward the door. "I'll leave you to it then."

"You needn't leave, Miss Yule," Sherlock called, marching toward his room. "You can leave the mongrel at your flat, if you wish."

"Would you stop calling him names," she hoped. "He solved a case for you."

"He ruined one of my coats," he yelled back when he entered his room to change.

Quennel sighed before taking Caesar's leash from her pocket and clipping it onto his collar. She pulled him toward the door and toward the stairs.

"I'll send him up, John!" she called, heading toward down the stairs and toward the door. She pulled Caesar back behind her and opened the door to reveal a haggard-looking young man staring back at her in wide-eyed surprise. "You must be here for Sherlock Holmes, yes?"

"Y-yes," he sputtered with a nod and she smiled widely.

"221 B is just up the stairs," she reported, backing away to let him head past her.

"Oh…thank you—Ah!" the young man shouted at the sight of Caesar, backing away as far as he could toward the stairs. She frowned at him but Caesar only watched him without so much as a growl or bark. "S-Sorry."

She watched him hurry up the stairs then looked down at Caesar, guessing he had a fear of dogs, but only shrugged it off and made her way out of the door. She shut the door behind her and made her way next door, but before she could even get to her door, her phone buzzed in her pocket. She gave a sigh and pulled out her phone to look at the text she knew was from Sherlock.

_You're coming back SH_

She rolled her eyes and typed up her response as she reached her door.

_You have John. You don't need me for anything._

The response was instantaneous after she sent that message as she entered her building and made her way to her flat door, Caesar remaining by her side as she dropped his leash to open the door and look at her phone.

_Miss Yule, it's not a question of needing you, it's a question of wanting you and I believe what I am feeling at the moment is want of your presence SH_

Quennel stared at the text message as she shoved her door open and let Caesar trot into the flat then sighed with a small smile and typed at her phone.

_Just let me tell Andy and Will to look in on Caesar while I'm there. Who knows how long you'll take with this one?_

She made her way deeper into the flat to unclip Caesar's leash and scratch his head before heading back to the door. She was typing up a text to her neighbors when Caesar suddenly growled in the direction of the door, making her look up with a frown and gasp at the sight of a man she didn't recognize in her threshold. Caesar was next to her in a second, still growling as the man only stepped fully into her flat, the door still open behind him.

"Miss Yule," he nodded, politely, but there was something in his voice and air that had a sinister feeling to it. "My name is Sebastian Moran. I'm a…friend of Jim Moriarty's. He sent me to check on you."

Quennel's heart thumped in her chest as she took in his height, noticing he was as tall as Sherlock, his blonde hair and ice blue eyes fitting perfectly with his narrow nose, high cheek bones and angular jaw. She swallowed at the stare he was giving her, not knowing what he might do if she told him to leave.

"Why does he think I need checking up on?" she breathed, her phone still in hand and Caesar still at her side, growling low at him. He raised a brow at her before lifting a hand and gently taking her phone from her, making her take in a silent breath as he stepped past her and into the flat. She turned to him as he sauntered in, inspecting the small living room from where he stood. "Sherlock is expecting me any minute. I can't stay and babysit you."

"Fine words of thanks, considering what I did for you," he shot back, making her frown in confusion before realization dawned on her.

"You…were the sniper," she breathed in wide-eyed shock as he turned to her with a nod. "You killed them."

"And saved your laugh," he reminded her. "Don't worry, I won't take long, and I'm not here to hurt you. I'm only here to ask why you haven't texted Jim in a while."

Quennel bit her lower lip in worry before taking a breath and replying, "He hasn't been up to anything of significance. He's just been working on cases. I was just about to text him and tell him that he solved the last one and might have another potential client as we speak."

Her phone buzzed in Moran's hand, making her take in a breath as her heart raced and he lifted the phone to look at the text.

_Where are you? SH_

"Seems he's missing you," Moran noticed before handing her phone back to her to let her read and respond to the text. He stood in her personal space, making her swallow and look away from him out of fear. "Don't mention I was here."

"Of course," she nodded, still not looking at him.

Moran continued to stare at her and leaned his face down to inhale the scent of her hair. Quennel frowned and shut her eyes, trying to hide her disgust as he pulled back when Caesar's growl grew louder and the dog sounded as though he were ready to bark at him.

"Don't tell him I was here," Moran ordered, though it went without saying, but she nodded anyway before he turned and made his way out the door, shutting it behind him.

Quennel let out a breath she didn't know she was holding before her shaky legs went out from under her and she collapsed next to Caesar. The dog came close and nuzzled her as she shuddered, doing the only thing he could think to do to comfort her.

_I'm coming_

She quickly shot the text to Sherlock before sending another text to Andy and Will that she needed to leave Caesar in her flat for a time while she was at 221 B, to which they told her not to worry, that they would take care of him as long as she needed.

Quennel thanked them…and then took a moment to herself to sob from the guilt.

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><p><strong>AN:** introducing, Paul Bettany as Sebastian Moran! I wanted to bring him in, so...he's in. He'll be around later, probably. reviews?


	24. The Footprints of a Gigantic Hound

**A/N:** new chappie! enjoy!

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><p><em><strong>Chapter 24: The Footprints of a Gigantic Hound<strong>_

Quennel trudged up the stairs to Sherlock and John's flat where she could hear the television on just before she walked in to see Sherlock in his chair, John next to him and the young man she'd met earlier sitting in John's chair. They were gathered around the telly that was playing a documentary of some kind about a place called Baskerville.

Sherlock looked up as she stepped in, quickly glancing over her as she approached, and she hoped he hadn't spotted that she was tense from her brief meeting with Moran. Or if she was that she didn't show it. She quietly sat on the sofa, not being noticed by anyone else as she watched the telly as well, guessing that this was part of the case. She watched Sherlock staring at the young man sitting across from him, the detective's chin resting slightly on his fingers as they moved, restlessly.

"_I was just a kid,_" she heard the young man, now on the telly, speaking. His name, Henry Knight, was displayed next to him. "_It was on the moor. It was dark but I know what I saw. I know what killed my father._"

Quennel's eyes went wide when they displayed a picture Henry had drawn when he was nine of a huge black dog with red eyes, but before Henry on the telly could explain, Sherlock sighed and turned the screen off, making all eyes turn to him in confusion.

"What did you see?" he questioned Henry, who was glancing between him and the now dark television.

"Oh, I…I was just about to say," Henry explained, meekly.

"Yes, in a TV interview," Sherlock replied, steepling his hands in front of him. "I prefer to do my own editing."

"Yes, sorry. Yes, of course," Henry sputtered, reaching into his pocket to pull out a napkin and blowing his nose. "Excuse me."

"In your own time," John assured him

"But quite quickly," Sherlock added, making Quennel roll her eyes.

Henry took a deep breath before asking, "Do you know Dartmoor, Mr. Holmes?"

"No."

"It's an amazing place. It's like nowhere else. It's sort of bleak but beautiful."

"Hm, not interested. Moving on."

"Good lord, Sherlock," Quennel whispered, finally catching Henry's attention and he frowned in wonder at not having noticed she was there. She smiled reassuringly before standing and making her way toward the three to sit on the arm of Sherlock's chair, smacking his arm before entreating Henry, "Don't mind me. Go on."

"We used to go for walks, after my mum died, my dad and me," Henry continued, setting his confusion aside. Every evening wed go out onto the moor."

"Yes, good, skipping to the night that your dad was violently killed. Where did that happen?" Sherlock asked without emotion, making Quennel and John exchange glances, but they said nothing.

"There's a place…it's a sort of landmark, called Dewer's Hollow," Henry resumed and when Sherlock only shrugged that he didn't know it, he continued. "That's an ancient name for the devil."

"So?" Sherlock frowned.

"Did you see the devil that night?" John asked, cutting through Sherlock's insensitivity and causing Henry to meet his eyes, as if in a daze.

"Yes," he breathed then shuddered, "It was huge, coal black fur with red eyes. It got him – tore at him – tore him apart. I can't remember anything else. They found me the next morning just wandering on the moor. My dad's body was never found."

"So…red eyes, coal black fur," Quennel nodded. "Could be a dog or a wolf."

"Or a genetic experiment," Sherlock whispered, almost mockingly before looking away from her with a slight smirk and Quennel rolled her eyes before noticing Henry's gaze on the detective.

"Are you laughing at me, Mr. Holmes?" he questioned.

"Why? Are you joking?" Sherlock shot back.

"My dad was always going on about the things they were doing at Baskerville," Henry recalled. "About the type of monsters they were breeding there. People used to laugh at him. At least the TV people took me seriously."

"I assume it _wonders_ for Devon tourism," Sherlock retorted, making Quennel sigh and glare at him.

"Henry," John called, sitting forward in his seat as Sherlock looked to Quennel and shrugged at her. "Whatever did happen to your father it was _twenty_ years ago. Why come to us now?"

"I'm not sure you can help me, Mr. Holmes, since you find it all so _funny_," Henry sneered with venom in his tone before he stood.

"Because of what happened last night?" Sherlock replied, making Henry stop before he reached the doorway.

"What happened last night?" Quennel wondered as Henry stared at Sherlock.

"How do you know?" he questioned.

"I didn't know, I noticed," Sherlock retorted. "You came up from Devon on the first available train this morning. You had a disappointing breakfast and a cup of black coffee. The girl at the seat across the aisle fancied you. Although you were initially keen, you've now changed your mind. You are, however, extremely anxious to have your first cigarette of the day. Sit down, Mr. Knight and do _please_ smoke. I'd be delighted."

Henry frowned between John and Quennel, but neither of them said a word as she only smirked back at Sherlock and Henry took his seat again.

"How on _Earth_ did you notice all that?" he wondered.

"It's not important," John quickly replied.

"Punched out holes where our ticket's been checked—"

"Not now, Sherlock," John begged.

"Oh, _please_, I've been cooped up in here for ages," Sherlock shot back.

"You're just showing off," John scolded.

"Well…he _is_ a show off," Quennel shrugged. "It's sort of what they do."

John rolled his eyes before Sherlock resumed his deductions.

"Train napkin, you used to mop up a spill. The coffee strength of the stain shows that you didn't take milk. The traces of ketchup on it and 'round your lips and sleeve – cooked breakfast. Well, nearest thing those trains can manage. Probably a sandwich."

"How did you know it was…disappointing?" Henry wondered, breathlessly.

"Is there any other type of breakfast on a train?

"The girl – female handwriting is quite distinctive – wrote her phone number down on the napkin. I could tell from the angel she wrote at that she was sat across from you on the other side of the aisle. Later, after she got off, I imagine you used the napkin to mop up your spilled coffee, accidentally smudging the numbers. You've been over the last four digits yourself with another pen, so you wanted to keep the number. Just now, though, you used the napkin to blow your nose. Maybe you're _not_ that into her after all.

"Then there's the nicotine stains on your fingers – your shaking fingers. I know the signs. No chance to smoke one on the train no time to roll one before you got a cab here. It's just after 9:15, you're desperate. The first rain from Exeter to London leaves at 5:46 AM. You were on the first one possible, so something important must have happened last night. Am I wrong?"

Henry took in a breath, staring at Sherlock in wide-eyed shock and wonder before replying, "No…you're right. You are…You are completely, exactly right. Bloody hell, I heard you were quick."

"It's my job," Sherlock retorted before sitting forward and ordering, "Now shut up and smoke."

Quennel sighed, as she stood from the arm of Sherlock's chair to sit on the floor as Henry pulled a cigarette from his pocket. Sherlock watched him closely as Henry pulled out his lighter and lit it while John looked through his notes.

"Harry, your parents both died, and you were, what, seven years old?" John began and Henry took a drag of his cigarette. "I know that mu—"

John cut himself off when Sherlock stood from his chair and leaned over Henry as smoke rose from the cigarette. Sherlock took in a huge breath through his nose, catching the scent of the smoke before pulling back and sitting on the edge of his chair again, making Quennel unable to help but snort out a laugh.

"That – That must be quite a trauma," John resumed, glancing at Sherlock who was coming down from the high of the smoke. "Have you ever thought that maybe you invented this story—"

Henry blew the smoke from his drag at the cigarette, and Sherlock leaned forward to breathe it in…loudly.

"…to account for it?" John resumed his question after Sherlock sat back down.

"Sherlock, stay seated or I'll sit on you," Quennel warned, making him frown at her, but she only lifted a brow at him in challenge.

"That's what Dr. Mortimer says," Henry told John.

"Who?" John asked.

"His/My therapist," Sherlock and Henry replied at the same time, making their gazes meet before Sherlock smiled, wryly, "Obviously."

"Louise Mortimer," Henry continued, "She's the reason I came back to Dartmoor. She thinks I have to face my demons."

"What happened when you went back to Dewer's Hollow last night, Henry?" Sherlock asked, making Henry look back at him again. "You went there on the advice of your therapist and now you're consulting a detective. What did you see that changed everything?"

"It's a strange place, the Hollow," Henry replied, savoring his cigarette as he recalled his night. "Makes you feel so cold inside. So afraid."

Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes and retorted, "Yes, if I wanted poetry, I'd read John's emails to his girlfriend. It's much funnier. What did you _see_?"

John sighed in exasperation as Quennel shook her head and lowered it into her hand with the same feeling.

"Footprints…on the exact spot where I saw my father torn apart," Henry replied.

Sherlock looked bored already as he sat back on his chair.

"Man's or woman's?" John asked.

"Neither. They were—"

"Is that it?" Sherlock retorted. "Nothing else? Footprints. Is that all?"

"Yes, but they were—"

"No, sorry, Dr. Mortimer wins: Childhood trauma masked by an invented memory. Boring! Goodbye, Mr. Knight. Thank you for smoking."

"Wait, what about the footprints?" Quennel frowned at him, gesturing to Henry.

"Oh, they're probably paw prints. Could be anything, therefore nothing. Off to Devon with you. Have a cream tea on me."

"Sherlock—" Quennel tried as he sat up and made his way toward the kitchen, but Henry cut her off.

"Mr. Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound."

Sherlock stopped and turned back to enter the room as Henry shifted to face him in his seat as Quennel and John looked up at him as well.

"Say that again."

"I found footprints. They were—"

"No, no, no, you _exact_ words. Repeat your exact words from a moment ago _exactly_ as you said them."

Henry hesitated before he finally repeated, "Mr. Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound."

Quennel smirked as she saw something shift in Sherlock's before he said, "I'll take the case."

"Sorry, what?" John blurted, looking up at Sherlock who started pacing into the living room.

"Thank you for bringing this to my attention," Sherlock told Henry. "It's very promising."

"No, no, no," John replied. "Sorry, what? A minute ago, footprints were boring now they're very promising?"

"It's nothing to do with footprints. As ever, John, you weren't listening. Miss Yule, Baskerville, ever heard of it?"

"Deirdra tried to do a piece on it when I first arrived at the BBC," she replied. "Emphasis on the word _tried_."

"And you, John?" Sherlock asked.

"Vaguely," the doctor replied. "It's very hush-hush."

"Sounds like a good place to start," Sherlock nodded, pulling his hands behind his back and standing straight.

"Oh, you'll come down then?" Henry asked, hopefully.

"No, I can't leave London at the moment. Far too busy. But don't worry. I'm putting my best man onto it," Sherlock assured him, stepping around Quennel to pat John on the shoulder before stepping back to his place. "Always rely on John to send me the relevant data as he never understands a word of it himself."

"Sherlock…you're not busy," Quennel recalled with a frown. "You were complaining about not having a case—"

"Bluebell, Miss Yule," Sherlock cut in, leaning over her just enough as she still sat on the floor to tap the top of her head, hard. "I've got _Bluebell_. The case of the vanishing, glow-in-the-dark rabbit. NATO's in an uproar."

"Oh…s-sorry, you're _not_ coming, then?" Henry guessed in confusion as Quennel rubbed her head where Sherlock had tapped her.

She glared up at him before frowning when she saw Sherlock pouting, dramatically at John, as if he was upset that he couldn't help Henry. Quennel frowned in confusion before looking to John who seemed to understand what Sherlock was really after. He sighed in exasperation before standing and heading toward the fireplace, Sherlock looking very smug as John lifted the skull sitting on the mantel to reveal a pack of cigarettes. Quennel rolled her eyes as Henry glanced between the two men and John tossed the pack to Sherlock, who caught them with both hands then tossed them over his shoulder.

"I don't need those anymore. I'm going to Dartmoor," Sherlock retorted. "You go on ahead, Henry. We'll follow later."

"I-I'm sorry," Henry called, standing and asking, "So you _are_ coming?"

"Twenty year old disappearance, a monstrous hound. Wouldn't miss this for the world," Sherlock replied, a little _too_ excitedly before turning to race into his bedroom.

"Right, well, Henry, I'll show you out, I guess," John replied, gesturing toward the door and Quennel slowly stood from the floor to head after Sherlock.

She stopped in the threshold to watch him start packing a bag, calculating how much he'd need for as long as he was staying. She watched him for a moment before he finally noticed she was there and glanced at her, but didn't stop packing.

"You should be heading home to pack," he reported, still packing himself.

Her heart raced in panic. After this meeting with Moran, it only reminded her of the depth of her situation. Spying on the man she cared about for the past week had felt like it had been easy since all he'd been doing was working on a case that wasn't really a matter of national security. Mycroft hadn't asked him for any help lately, and she was sure it would be things like that Moriarty would want to hear about.

What was killing her was that she couldn't tell anyone…especially what was left of her family. Scarlett and Emily were in enough peril as it was, she couldn't tell them what was going on and put even _bigger_ targets on their backs. And she couldn't risk telling Sherlock, but she was sure that since meeting Moran, she would tell him either on the way to Dartmoor or once they were there. The feeling of being away from home and seemingly away from danger would take hold and cause her to spill her guts.

"Maybe I should sit this one out?" she suggested, making him stop and look up at her with a wide-eyed frown.

"Sit out?" he echoed. "What ever for?"

"You have John," she assured him. "I don't think you need me with you."

"Perhaps not, but your company is much appreciated," he replied, turning back to his packing.

She felt a stab of guilt as she sighed, rolling her eyes in false exasperation before smirking, "What did you ever do without me, Mr. Holmes?"

"Had a horrible time of it, Miss Yule," he retorted without missing a beat, making Quennel chuckle, but he stopped and looked at her again. She straightened at his scrutinizing gaze, making his eyes narrow at her. "You never used to do that."

"Do what?" she frowned.

"You're shifty," he noticed. "You never used to do that when I deduce you. I knew something was different. What's happened?"

Quennel swallowed and decided to use the excuse of over-excitement since meeting him to explain her strange behavior. She hated lying to him, but she had to. To protect Scarlett, and her mother…and Sherlock himself.

"Sherlock, I've been through a lot since meeting you," she began. "I've lost my best friend, I've been kidnapped and stabbed, I've lost my job and my flat, and now I've lost two of my family members. Did you ever stop to think that maybe, just _maybe_, I need some time to myself to unwind like a normal human being, _not_ another case?"

"Honestly? No, I didn't," he retorted, stepping toward her and catching her off guard when he stopped an inch away from her, looming over her as their gazes locked. "And I'll tell you why: _You_ are not, as you put it, a normal human being. If you were, you wouldn't have come to me in the first place, and you _certainly_ wouldn't find me at all attractive, would you?"

Quennel narrowed her gaze at him, knowing she'd been caught, but not willing to give up. At least she was keeping him from trying to deduce what was wrong with her.

"Well, perhaps I'm _not_ normal," she muttered. "But really, Sherlock, there's only so much a girl can take before she needs a good long rest. You taking on this case will give me the break I need from all the running. You get to see the country while I stay in the city and relax."

His gaze narrowed at her again before he stepped back and turned to packing, making her let out a breath that she didn't know she was holding.

"I'll call you if I truly need you, I suppose," he replied, still packing. "It's only a train ride away. You wouldn't mind that, would you?"

"Certainly not, but as I said, I don't see why you would need me when you have John with you," she shrugged.

"John Watson is not _you_, Miss Yule."

Quennel stared at him with huge eyes, shocked into silence as she only watched him continue packing. Had he really just said that? She wondered if, when he said things like that, it was just a ploy to get what he wanted. He'd done it before. She'd _seen_ him do it. But the way he was avoiding looking at her for her reaction told her that he actually meant it…and how could she say no to that?

_Resist him, Quennel_, she told herself. _You have to before you do something you'll regret…like tell him what's going on with Moriarty and get everyone you care about killed._

"Well, what's that old saying?" she smirked, uneasily as she folded her arms in front of her. "Absence makes the heart grow fonder, yes?"

Sherlock stood tall and shut his case before turning his gaze to Quennel, making her swallow, quietly but she knew he could tell she'd done it.

"_Fond_, Miss Yule?" he echoed, turning to stalk toward her as she remained in the doorway of his room and he loomed over her once more, this time with a slight smirk. "Oh, I think we've gone a bit past just being _fond_ of each other, don't you?"

She glared up at him, unwilling to back down from this battle of wills. He watched her closely as she stared back at him…then knew exactly how to call his bluff.

"Well…" she sighed, lifting a hand to fiddle with one of the buttons of his shirt, smirking at how it looked nearly ready to bust under the strain of holding it together. He certainly did like his shirts tight, but she liked to think he wore them to try to impress her with the muscles under the material. Remembering herself, she resumed, "I suppose we have, Mr. Holmes."

Her gaze rose to his face, looking up at him through her lashes as he stared back down at her in surprise, and she noticed his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed silently, making her smirk grow.

"The truth is…Sherlock…" she whispered, lifting her chin and meeting his gaze fully as she inched closer to his face. "…if I went with you, I don't think I'd be able to keep my hands off of you. I don't know about you but…I'd like to take your virginity in a place you'll feel comfortable rather than a lumpy bed at an inn in Dartmoor."

Quennel grinned when his eyed widened as far as they could before she gave him a wink and turned to stroll back down the hall. She had won this round.

"Enjoy your hound hunt, Mr. Holmes!"

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><p><strong>AN:** onward with the hounds of Baskerville! reviews?


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